His Mistress
by SerpentClara
Summary: She is Hermione Granger, spy for the Dark side. She is the valiant yet ambitious Auror who finds refuge in the arms of a Death Eater and betrays everything for him. United in a forbidden affair, they change the wizarding world... for the worse. Dark/OOC Hermione. Lucius/Hermione pairing. Discontinued.
1. Hermione Granger, Auror

_Disclaimer__: The Harry Potter universe and its components, including characters, places and spells, belong to their creator, J. K. Rowling. No money is being made and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended with this work._

_**His Mistress**_  
_A story by SerpentClara_

Read the tale of what is probably the most ghastly love affair wizarding history has seen … judging by its colossal consequences.

Set in the Harry Potter universe, _His Mistress_ relates a romantic intrigue between two enemies, namely one of the most esteemed Aurors of the time … and You-Know-Who's right-hand man. It is a tale where love is the most detrimental of weaknesses or the greatest of strengths, depending on which viewpoint you take.

Five years after leaving Hogwarts, Harry, Ron and Hermione have become heroic Dark-wizard-catchers. But when Hermione encounters the Death Eater who had set his eye on her since the Quidditch World Cup and whose attentions had _not_ left her entirely unresponsive, judging by the fact that she had blushed under his gaze … when offered everything she could want in her life, such as unrestricted knowledge and immeasurable power, not to mention _love_ … will she, Harry Potter's second-best friend (after Ron) and the brightest yet least influent member of the Golden Trio, go as far as to betray all she ever knew, even her own blood?

J. K. Rowling once said Muggle-borns "are not allowed to be Death Eaters, _except in rare circumstances_." Under the guidance of the man she loves, Hermione becomes the most notorious traitor the Light side has ever produced. The valiant Auror becomes a spy for Voldemort … A path that will lead her farther than she had ever dared dream.

You might wonder what gave me the idea for this plot – or this pairing. When I was re-reading book four, a particular segment gave me the hint, and with a little imagination, one can create a hundred possibilities based on a single sentence: _**Mr Malfoy's eyes had returned to Hermione, who went slightly pink, but stared determinedly back at him.**_ (Harry Potter and the Goblet of Fire, Chapter Eight: The Quidditch World Cup)

I always wondered … why was he _staring_ at her? He considers Muggle-borns inferior, so he should have barely spared her a glance – that's what people usually do to those they consider second-class! Or could it be because he _hates_ Mudbloods? I think he hates Harry more and yet he barely even looked at him. So, really, I think there's only one other way to explain that behaviour, you know what I mean? And an even greater mystery, _why did Hermione blush_? We all know how inept Harry is at interpreting girls' emotions, but Harry, let me tell you this: girls do _not_ blush because someone they dislike is staring at them. Quite the opposite, actually. That scene has always puzzled me and after a lot of thinking, I decided to write a story based on the obvious rationalisation.

Please note that this story was drafted before the release of the sixth book. It does not, therefore, take into account the events that occurred in _Harry Potter and the Half-Blood Prince_. Please leave a review if you have anything to say; I'm always delighted to read your comments (as long as they are polite).

**Warning:** This story contains depictions of violence, death, betrayal, D/s, abusive relationships and other potentially disturbing themes. The author does not condone the opinions and practices described in this story.

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— CHAPTER ONE —

_**Hermione Granger, Auror**_

A young woman was walking quickly along Diagon Alley, her fiery red cloak billowing behind her like a flag, identifying her to the rest of the world. Hermione Granger was an Auror. A talented Auror with observation skills and reflexes honed by three years of rigorous training followed by two years of practice.

Harry and Ron had gone into Auror training upon leaving Hogwarts. Hermione had been unsure about what career she wanted to go into – there were so many possibilities to choose from, many of them so exciting! At the last moment, she had decided to follow her best friends into training. They had become the Auror Trio, and now they were among best in the department, along with a former classmate, Neville Longbottom. The aptitude Neville had shown at Defence Against the Dark Arts back in their fifth year, when Harry had been teaching him with the rest of the DA, had been the beginning. Frank and Alice Longbottom had been among the most respected Aurors of their time before they had been struck by their tragic fate, and their son _had_ inherited some of their talent.

Hermione shuddered as she remembered Neville's parents in the permanent ward of St Mungo's hospital and the heartbreaking way they didn't recognise their son. Now that it was her and her friends' turn to follow in the Longbottoms' footsteps, she knew that the same could happen to her any day. When she had chosen to become a Dark-wizard-catcher, she had been aware of the risks and she had accepted them just as her friends had, eager to become heroes, to join Harry in the noble job of people-saving. _Bravery … _Wasn't this the reason she had been sorted into Gryffindor? But were all Gryffindors destined to become Aurors, to sacrifice themselves for the cause of fighting You-Know-Who? _No. Only the bravest, the best._ And she was one of those. She, alongside Harry, was one of the elite.

Being a vigilant person, Hermione tried to avoid venturing outside after the sun had set unless necessary for a tracking mission, and even then, she took precaution seriously. Walking a deserted street alone at night could be dangerous in peaceful times, but it was more so these days, considering the number of times she had been attacked by Death Eaters who wanted nothing less than the demise of one of the most accomplished Aurors of the time. But today, as much as she would have wished to stay in her cosy home, she had no choice. She would be leaving on a mission early tomorrow morning and she needed to fetch some gold from her Gringotts vault before she left. Borrowing money from Harry, or, heaven-forbid, Ron was embarrassing. After the only time she had done it, she had vowed never to borrow gold again.

Between missions to track down dangerous wizards and the preliminary research required for these missions, there was never enough time for an Auror to visit Diagon Alley lately. But luckily for Hermione, the goblins worked well past normal office hours. In fact, Gringotts was open twenty-four hours a day.

It was a chilly September night. Shivering in the crisp autumn breeze, Hermione pulled her cloak tighter around herself and continued her walk towards the white building that was the wizarding bank, unaware of the hooded figure watching her slender silhouette from the shadows.

The route was becoming rather shadowy and she had difficulty seeing the way ahead. Being shrouded by the darkness meant that she would not be noticed by potential attackers, but not being able to see where she was going could be just as risky. She pulled out her wand and whispered, "_Lumos!_"

Her wand ignited, enabling her to see the path almost clearly, and this boosted her sense of security. However, she knew she had to be particularly careful because she was approaching the place where Diagon Alley connected to Knockturn Alley.

A gust of cold wind ruffled Hermione's clothes and the street suddenly seemed darker. She clutched her wand with chilled fingers and hurried. She had the impression that someone was watching her and had to resist the temptation to turn around.

The Dark wizard watched as magical light illuminated Hermione's slim figure. _Is that Hermione Granger, the former prodigy of Hogwarts? She looks more alluring than ever._

Her voluminous brown hair, which had once been bushy and unkempt but had neatened somewhat with age, was falling in wild, bouncy ringlets down to her shoulders; her attentive brown eyes were sparkling, reflecting the beam of light coming from the tip of her wand.

Many times he had paused in a duel simply to watch her in motion, strands of brown hair flying in all directions to the point where it looked like a blur around her.

When he had first laid eyes on her at the Quidditch World Cup, so many years ago, he had noticed that there was something special about the bushy-haired girl. She had an air of superiority not unlike his own.

His son had told him all about her: the perfect marks she got in every test, her non-magical origins, her friendship with Potter and the Weasleys. He had observed the Mudblood curiously. So this was the best student of Hogwarts? He had thought she looked rather insignificant at first glance.

The girl had appeared not to care the slightest about her appearance. Tangled and untidy, her hair had been falling to her shoulders where it contrasted with the beige tone of her skin. She had looked up then and he had seen a pretty face with dark eyes framed by long eyelashes the same shade as her hair. A strange simplicity had been emanating from her, an innocence that, in a woman, could be more seductive than any deliberate coquetry.

He had sensed that there was something different about her because she had refused to look away, while others always looked down from his gaze. But this girl had stared right back.

Her brown eyes had been very expressive: her every emotion had been reflected in them. They had been truly captivating, innocent yet challenging. There had been an almost haughty expression in them that had undoubtedly come from the knowledge of being so much more intelligent than most.

A tinge of pink had appeared on her cheeks, but she had met his scrutiny almost proudly, refusing to show weakness. He had stared into her eyes … And for a moment that had felt like forever, her eyes had looked so deep and velvety that he had been mesmerised … something had lit up in them, some emotion directed at him – and it hadn't been hatred or fear. It had been something close to admiration.

For a second, he had seen the erudite woman behind the haughty girl, the woman capable of great loyalty and devotion … a woman who was enthralled by him.

His eyes had felt glued to hers and it was as though everything around them had suddenly disappeared; he had been lost in her dark eyes, forgetting who and what she was. He had looked away then, troubled by the attraction these magnetic eyes had stirred in him.

The girl could have been really pretty had she taken the time to tame her hair. He had pursed his lips; such looks and intelligence were a waste on a Mudblood. Had she been a pure-blood ... he had been feeling strangely disappointed, all the while knowing that the bewitching brown-haired girl would haunt him for a long time. He hadn't said anything as he turned and walked to his seat, followed by his son and his wife.

During uninteresting moments in the match, his eyes would stray away from the game and to where she sat in the row in front of him, and he would find himself staring at the back of her head.

Later that evening, when the Dark Mark had appeared in the sky and he and the other Death Eaters had been fleeing out of fear, before Disapparating, he had had the time to catch sight of the girl he had looked at earlier that day, her face pale as she pulled Potter into the woods. But what he had also noticed was that she had been looking in interest at the group of masked wizards which he had been leading, and when she had looked up at the sign in the sky, the look in her eyes had been one of fascination as well as fear.

In his mind, the defiant teenage girl had suddenly become a woman with deep dark eyes who was in awe of him and fascinated by the Darkness. The woman who, from that day on, would haunt his dreams at night and plague his thoughts in daylight.

That had been eight years ago. But he had not forgotten her – far from it. True, their encounters had been short and far between, not to mention under far from congenial circumstances …

At the Department of Mysteries, he had happened upon her, where she had lain sprawled on the floor in a corner of the Brain Room, unconscious – or _dead_? He had felt a twinge of … had that been worry? He had commanded Mulciber to go ahead, hoping that in the meantime, the others would convince Potter to hand over the prophecy.

He could hear his fellow Death Eaters' voices down in the black hallway as he had looked around the room. The Weasley boy had been thrashing against some tentacles that kept wrapping around him and the pale girl with straggly hair had been lying unmoving on the floor next to the Weasley girl, also unconscious.

Pleased by the fact that there was no one to witness his actions, he had quickly walked over to the corner where _she_ had been, her eyes closed and her face deathly pale. He had bent down and seized her wrist, not even thinking about the fact that he was touching a Mudblood. There had been a pulse, weak but nevertheless there had been one and he had felt a startling surge of relief.

He had let go of her wrist and stared at her motionless face. This was the girl he could not stop thinking about since he had seen her at the Quidditch World Cup, the enigmatic girl who haunted him in his dreams. She was his obsession, and once he had come to terms with the fact that he had some sort of _sentiments_ for a Mudblood, he had sworn he would make her his …

On an impulse, he had run a caressing hand over her cheek; he had stroked her soft brown hair … oh, how he had dreamt of doing this to her … this, and so much more.

A whimper from Weasley's youngest son had brought him out of his daze. He had withdrawn his hand and stood up. Only then had he noticed the blood seeping out of a wound on the bushy-haired girl's chest, a bright red patch on her Hogwarts robes.

She had been losing blood at an alarming speed and he had recognised the effects of the Stabbing Curse, the curse Dolohov had used to kill the Prewetts. The Stabbing Curse inflicted wounds that resembled those caused by a knife, only these wounds were deadly because Dark magic prevented the blood from clotting, so that the victim would die from blood loss shortly if they weren't killed outright. It was a wonder that the girl had not been dead yet; usually, the wounds caused by this curse were deep enough to kill instantly.

A malevolent smile had found its way onto his face. Dolohov was in for an unpleasant surprise. He might just find that his house had _accidentally_ caught on fire in the middle of the night …

He had pulled out his wand and cast a spell to stop the bleeding, using magic just as Dark to counteract Dolohov's curse. Her life was no longer in danger; it had been all he could do. He was no Healer and he had to leave … he had had lost too much time already; the Dark Lord would not have been pleased to hear of this. As the Dark Lord's unofficial battle leader, he had been supposed to be in charge of the band … Dumbledore's bunch of friends would find her, or Ministry wizards would – in any case, she wasn't been in immediate danger anymore, he had reasoned to himself as he had hurried through the door that led into the Death Chamber, where the rest of his comrades had been stationed.

Later that night, when the Death Eaters had failed to get the prophecy and Dumbledore had cast the Anti-Disapparation Jinx on them, the ancient wizard had looked directly at him, his expression triumphant, pleased at finally having ruined the reputation of the Malfoy family. So far, the name had still commanded some respect in the eyes of the Ministry, in spite of Dumbledore's efforts. But as soon as word would get out about the head of the family being caught in the company of a group of escaped convicts and known followers of the Dark Lord after having illegally entered a restricted area of the Ministry in an attempt to steal something … well, no amount of gold would get him out of this one, nor did he expect the Imperius excuse to work a second time.

Dumbledore had known this, which was why he had looked so nauseatingly smug. But he had looked back at his enemy with his head held high, refusing to let the old fool see his despair. _You may have won today, Dumbledore_, he had thought, _but I will have my vengeance_. And even then, his mind had returned to the bushy-haired girl, recalling the softness of her skin and the outline of breasts he had seen under her bloodied robes, and he had wondered whether Dumbledore's people had found her …

Cornelius Fudge was quick to turn on those he considered friends. One day the Minister had been greeting Harry Potter like an old friend, the next he had proclaimed that the boy was insane and dangerous. It had been no different with him – once Fudge had seen the evidence of his trusted advisor's allegiance to the Dark Lord, his esteem for the 'very old family' that donated to 'excellent causes' had evaporated.

And when he had found himself in Azkaban, surrounded by Dementors, instantly drained of all hope and will to live, the memory of _her_ face had been the only thing that had kept him sane. It had not been a happy thought but more of a painful, desperate yearning, and it had been the only thing he could cling to, as the Dementors could not take it from him. She had been his only link to reality when he had found himself forced to relive his worst memories, to feel every time the Dark Lord had raised his wand against him all over again. It was then that she had truly become his obsession.

When he had caught the same girl in Hogsmeade late one night, in her seventh year at school, he had been determined to claim what was his. He had pushed her against a wall and kissed her. When Dumbledore's crowd had arrived to rescue her and her friends, he had promised to her that it wasn't over and he had fully intended to act on his word.

But once out of Hogwarts, she had disappeared with Potter and the Weasley boy. Auror training was done in a secret location and the trainee Aurors were isolated from the world. More than a boarding school like Hogwarts, the renowned Auror Academy was a yearlong education facility with no summer, Christmas or Easter holidays. And when the girl, now a woman, had returned as a fully qualified Auror three years later, it had become much more difficult for him to seek her out as he would have wished to – he did not want to risk returning to Azkaban and he knew perfectly well what every Auror's duty consisted of: _capturing Dark wizards_. So he had stayed away and he had thought that his obsession would fade with time …

It did not. Now she was walking alone, at night, in a deserted street? He could not resist this opportunity. _I have had enough of waiting_, he decided. She was an Auror, yes, but he was sure he could defeat her in a duel. He _was_ the Dark Lord's second, after all. He would simply have to be cautious.

He decided to pursue her.

Hermione was a qualified Auror, and when she caught sight of suspicious Dark activity, she did not run for her life but lingered in the premises to investigate it. So when she heard a rustle behind her, she pretended not to notice it and continued on her way, deliberately slowing her pace and holding her wand tightly.

Raising it high enough to spread the narrow beam of light further on the ground, she turned her head sideways and out of the corner of her eye, she saw a hooded figure creeping up furtively behind her.

It was important to let the person – whoever it was – believe she was _not_ aware of them following her. Then she could have a better chance of catching them unprepared when she would strike.

She walked an entire building block and the stalker was still following her. This meant that it was not merely a stray stroller but undoubtedly a Dark wizard after her, and he was going to attack soon – unless she attacked first. She quickly analysed her options and decided that the best tactic would be to take the initiative. Perhaps she could catch him off-guard, which was unlikely but possible, and if not … well, the confrontation was inevitable anyway.

With the sharp reflexes of an experienced Dark-wizard-catcher, Hermione aimed her wand over her shoulder and muttered, "_Impedimenta!_"

The spell hit the target ... who deflected it easily, then sent a jet of red light at her. She dodged it and set off a stream of smoke from her wand in an attempt to disorientate her opponent. To her surprise, he aimed a magical burst of wind in her direction in response, resulting in the fumes being blown in her face.

_Clever move,_ thought Hermione as she jumped out of the way, evaluating the possibilities. By all signs she was fighting a skilled duellist, but most Death Eaters, no matter now quick their reflexes and how wide their knowledge of spells, possessed an insignificant amount of magical power, weakened still by the time most of them had spent in Azkaban.

One of the secrets of Hermione's successful capture of so many Dark wizards was a spell she had discovered by accident during a late-night reading in a book on ancient duelling. It was a jinx bordering on the line between Light and Dark magic. It disabled the target by rendering them blind and dizzy for exactly four seconds, and no wizard of average power could counteract it. Four seconds weren't much time, but they were enough to cast a Stunning Spell. It was worth a try.

Like most jinxes that were classified as Dark magic, including the one Quirrel had used on Harry's broom in their first year as well as Snape's counter-curse, this spell did not require a wand, only direct eye contact with the target, without blinking, accompanied by the incantation.

Hermione fixed her eyes on the cloaked form of her opponent and mumbled a string of Latin words under her breath.

To her surprise, the Death Eater dispelled her jinx within a second. She did not know, of course, that the wizard was just as surprised as she, only for a different reason: he had not expected one of the decade's most esteemed Aurors to use Dark magic.

Hermione concluded that it was a powerful opponent, then, if he could fight her spell. No matter, she loved a good challenge. She was not one of the best Aurors for nothing. Little did she know this was one challenge she should not have taken …

She heard another rustle to her left yet could not see anything. Her attacker seemed to have disappeared, but Hermione knew better. Death Eaters did not abandon their endeavours so easily. She stood still, listening. Then –

Her wand went flying out of her hand as she felt someone grab her from behind. The light spell had been discontinued the moment her wand was no longer in her grasp and Hermione found herself in complete darkness, prevented from moving by a wizard she couldn't see. She shrieked and squirmed, trying to throw the aggressor off.

Her angry scream was cut off and she realised the man must have cast a nonverbal Silencing Charm. She tried to kick him, but it was hard to take aim because he was still behind her. Her attempts to get away were futile; the person who was holding her was incredibly strong and apparently had no intention of letting her out of his hold.

_Damn._ She should have been more careful. Now she was trapped. The last time she had been in a similar situation was back when she had been a seventh-year at Hogwarts, and it had been a _very _similar situation, at least in the start … Hermione stopped that trail of thought. No, she did not want to think of _that_ right now. She had to figure out a way to get out of this situation alive and, hopefully, unscathed.

She couldn't see her attacker, but she knew it must have been a Death Eater. Who else would creep up on an Auror in a dark, deserted intersection near an alleyway dedicated to the Dark Arts?

Meanwhile, the stalker, who was holding her arms in an unyielding grip behind her back, spoke in a drawling voice.

"Do not squander your energy on hopeless resistance, Miss Granger. You will not wriggle out of this predicament, not this time."

In the shadows of nightfall, Hermione's face went ghostly pale. Yes, _exactly_ the same situation. Only this time, her friends weren't around to save her. She would recognise this man's voice anywhere, despite having last heard it some long five years ago. That smooth, slow speech that oozed arrogance … it allowed Hermione to identify this wizard as the one the Aurors – in whispers – referred to as You-Know-Who's 'right-hand man'. Most people avoided pronouncing the names of Voldemort's high-ranking followers and some of them – Bellatrix Lestrange, Antonin Dolohov and last but not least, _he_ – were feared nearly as much as Voldemort himself.

Gryffindors were known to be brave and fearless. Even more so were Aurors. Hermione could honestly say there was nothing and no one that frightened Harry these days. But she couldn't say the same about herself.

There were two wizards Hermione had ever feared. Lord Voldemort was one. But then, who did _not_ fear Voldemort? Even his followers did. She just had to see their reaction when Harry boldly pronounced his name in their presence. He Who Must Not Be Named was one wizard of whom the Muggle-born Auror had always been afraid.

And Lucius Malfoy was the other. Since that day in Flourish and Blott's when she had been twelve, she felt a deep sense of dread whenever she thought of the intimidating man whose son she hated.

Either he was going to kill her or he was going to kidnap her and bring her to his Master, which was even worse an option, given that she would probably have to suffer torture before being killed. Or maybe not …

_Don't_ _be silly, Hermione!_ she admonished herself.. Aurors and Death Eaters were enemies to the core. If he had not killed her before, he certainly would now that she had become a Dark-wizard-catcher. No, she was going to die, she knew it …

She could hope for no assistance. Her friends weren't here and she hadn't told anyone where she was going … she had even left the enchanted pocket mirror that she could use to contact the Order at home. No, she knew that the outcome of this situation would be decided by the enemy.

He knew it too. In fact, he knew it so well that he did not hurry. "Well, Miss Granger, I would have thought you'd learn from your mistakes – though five years is indeed a long time …"

Hermione would have blushed if she had not been so scared. But as it was, she just stood there, her back straight, her arms tense, an expression of utter fright on her face. She did not make a sound. She waited.

She felt the air vibrate against the back of her head as he said the spell to summon her wand from where it had fallen to the ground. She craned her neck to follow it with her eyes as it zoomed obediently into his hand. He held it tauntingly in front of her face, as though to see whether she would have the nerve to try to snatch it away.

She would have attempted it if he hadn't been holding her wrists securely in his hand. Not for the first time, Hermione wished she wasn't a woman, defenceless without her magical power … she cringed when he intoned, "_Lumos!_" behind her and the wand lit up inches away from her face. She looked at the piece of wood despairingly, then turned her head as far back as she could to give him an upset, scared look.

She found herself looking into a pair of gleaming grey eyes that stared fiercely into hers. In the beam of her wand, she saw the anticipation in these eyes and the cruel triumph twisting the wizard's pale face. Hermione shivered.

He said "_Nox_" and the street fell back into darkness. Her wand disappeared into his cloak and the last of her hopes disappeared with it.

"Scared?" he sneered. She could not answer because of the Silencing spell, but the panic in her eyes must have been impossible to overlook. "I will not hurt you unless you struggle," he said softly, releasing her hands.

Before she could do more than wobble in surprise, his hand closed around her upper arm.

"Come with me," he commanded, steering her around the corner into Knockturn Alley.

_He wouldn't hurt her?_ Hermione did not believe a word of this, but she knew better than to rebel. It would have been easy for him to use the Imperius Curse, but for some reason he preferred for her to follow him of her free will, and that thought gave her an ounce of hope that maybe, maybe he wasn't going to kill her after all. He could have already done it had he wanted to, but no, it seemed that he wanted her alive. He hadn't even used the Cruciatus Curse, which was rather surprising, knowing that she was a Muggle-born Auror and he a follower of a man thought Muggle-borns were the filth that needed to be wipe off the face of earth. Astonishingly enough, if she were to disregard the threats and the mockery, he had treated her rather delicately the whole time.

Throwing all second thoughts aside, she followed him into the dirty, dark alley.


	2. In the Dark of Night

_Disclaimer__ : The Harry Potter universe and its components belong to their creator, J. K. Rowling. No money is being made and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended with this work._

Thanks to everyone who reviewed. Your comments are appreciated.

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"_I would have thought you'd be ashamed that a girl of no wizard family beat you in every exam_" (Harry Potter and the Chamber of Secrets, Chapter Four: At Flourish and Blotts)

— CHAPTER TWO —

_**In the Alley of the Night**_

The street was dark and forbidding. There were no streetlamps here and Hermione had to keep herself from stumbling on the bumpy stones of the pavement. The tug on her arm was her only indicator of direction, and she followed it blindly.

Her mind working at high speed, she glanced over at the man whose cold hand was holding her arm in a grip that was almost gentle, though frighteningly strong. She had no idea where they were going, but he walked ahead with a confidence that suggested he knew the way so well that he had no difficulty finding it in the dark.

She still hadn't given up hope, in spite of the rational evidence that her situation was as hopeless as he claimed. Now was the time to come up with some miraculous plan of escape like the times when she had had to extricate her friends from trouble … but no miraculous scheme came. There was no ingenious inspiration, nothing but the blankness of mind that accompanied the terror of nightmares turned reality.

Her breathing grew shallower with each step she took and her legs shook with mounting panic. _What am I doing? Why did I follow him?_ she wondered as she walked by the side of the enemy. An enemy who was going to kill her … but who was now her guide into an unfamiliar place that had always frightened her, even if she had learnt to consciously dismiss her fear by replacing it with a determination to tackle whatever she encountered, to bravely do her duty as an Auror. But none of that mattered now, because there were some fears that she had failed to overcome …

She was in this situation because not for the first time, her quick thinking had failed her when faced with this Death Eater, although she couldn't understand why. Had she been too afraid to disobey him? Was she really so little of a Gryffindor that she had let an emotion as irrational as fear paralyse her?

_I was stupid; I should have been more careful, but it's too late to change that_ , she reasoned. She knew that had he been anyone else, she would not have followed him into Knockturn Alley – she would have fought with her bare hands if she had to, and nothing short of the Imperius curse would have made her cooperate. But she had trusted him inherently for some reason … _And he probably would have killed me already if I hadn't …_

After what felt like hours but in reality had been only minutes, her abductor stopped in front of the door of a small house with skewed walls. He pushed her face-first into the door, forcing her to stay ahead of him so that he could keep an eye on her while he fumbled with the lock.

Hermione watched him out of the corner of her eye. She wanted to memorise the mechanism so that she could give the information to the Auror Office, in the unlikely event that she would live long enough to return to work. She gave up when felt a wand poke her warningly in the back.

She leaned her cheek against the rough wood of the door and closed her eyes behind the strands of bushy hair that obscured her face. He hadn't been quick enough to prevent her from glimpsing the plaque on the door, a metal plate inscribed with the number 25, an image that would remain engraved in her memory.

She heard a metallic click as the lock on the door gave way and he sheathed his wand. Opening the door, he wrapped an arm firmly around her waist and led her inside.

It was as dark in the house as it had been on the street. Cautiously, she followed him over a set of stairs and ended up in a high-ceilinged room lit by several torches and a cobwebby chandelier in the form of a coiled serpent. The furniture consisted of a black couch and several chairs padded with black fabric that looked like velvet. The curtains, also black, were tightly closed.

The moment her captor stepped into the room, pulling her in after him, amber flames roared in the fireplace, casting eerie shadows on the walls. On the outside, the dirty walls had looked as though only magic was stopping them from collapsing, but inside, Hermione saw no sign of ruin. The hardwood floor was relatively clean, although the walls were covered with a layer of dust and cobwebs hung from the ceiling, mostly in the corners.

The air itself was rather warm yet it sent a chill through Hermione. In the centre of the room was a wooden table littered with potion vials, bloodstained books, broken mirrors and other sinister things the Auror recognised as Dark Arts objects. She had been expecting something like this, given that the house appeared to be a Death Eater hideout. She could sense the reek of Dark magic in the air.

Yet, inexplicably, ironically, she felt almost comfortable with her surroundings. She was an Auror surrounded by all the things she has been trained to detect and destroy, but now that there was nothing she could do to fulfil her duty, she did not even feel bothered by them. Instead, she was fascinated with the things she had been taught to hate and banish. The essence of evil that had chilled when she had entered this room now felt almost welcoming, triggering her naturally curious and daring nature.

Comprehension hit her brusquely and she shuddered in horror when she realised the implications. She felt like she belonged here. She had never felt so _at home_ in such a hostile place. Quickly, she dismissed the idea that would be the logical conclusion. The terrifying conclusion that she was attracted by the Dark Arts and the power they represented. No way …

_This is ridiculous,_ she told herself. _This place is full of Dark magic and I'm an Auror. I can't feel at ease here._

_But_ _you do,_ a tiny voice whispered in her head. _You do. Don't deny it. You know it's true._ And that was what scared her the most. She almost felt at peace, despite the fact that she was at the mercy of a brutal Death Eater. But he wasn't acting brutal towards her, was he?

He removed his hood and hung his cloak on a hall stand near the door. Then he proceeded to unfasten Hermione's scarlet cloak. He removed it from her shoulders and hung it next to his. He pushed her gently onto the couch, forcing her to sit.

"How amiable of you to have joined me in this lonely place, Miss Granger," he said lazily. "I never knew an Auror could be so obedient … even less so a former Gryffindor."

She scowled, folding her hands in her lap to stop them from shaking. What was he talking about? He had not given her a choice! Was he trying to insult her by insinuating that she would have followed him if she had had a choice?

Oddly enough, he was treating her almost civilly, as though she were a guest, except for the fact that she had been robbed of her wand and her ability to speak. But he wasn't torturing her yet, and she had to wonder why he had brought her here.

The voice in her head mocked her, reminding her that she felt like she belonged here. _No_ _I don't,_ she thought firmly.

"It was clever of you to have realised the hopelessness of your situation so quickly," he drawled. "It was almost Slytherin behaviour, in fact. Then again, you have always been a clever witch …"

A reluctant smile tugged at Hermione's lips for a second. Her hard work at Hogwarts must have paid off, if it had impressed even someone as prejudiced as he …

Then he pointed his wand at her and she flinched, expecting to be hit with an Unforgivable Curse. But he merely spoke the counter-spell to the Silencing Charm. "What is it that you want from me?" she asked once the spell was lifted, trying to keep apprehension out of her voice.

He approached silently and sat next to her. She fought the urge to scoot as far away from him as possible when he grasped her by the shoulder and turned her to face him. The intensity of his eyes made her feel slightly dizzy.

"My dear girl, you know what I want. I believe I made my intentions clear enough on that night in Hogsmeade several years ago …"

Hermione's eyes widened, but she sat rigidly, unwilling to show her fear. Abruptly, she understood and was horrified by her own naiveness. _Of course!_ How hadn't she guessed?

_But_ _why? Aren't I just a Mudblood? _she thought bitterly.

"What I've wanted to do with you from the moment your eyes met mine, in the Top Box at the World Cup of 1994," he said heatedly.

Hermione blushed.

His eyes gleamed. "I remember … on that day, your face went as red as it is now. It makes you appear even prettier, though I did wonder why you had blushed …"

Oh, she remembered all too well.

When she had met his gaze back at the Quidditch World Cup, she had found herself unable to look away. His eyes were the same dark, cold shade of grey as Draco's, yet the expression in them had been very different from his son's.

His eyes had been so intense; there had been such power in them, as well as a sophisticated intelligence that his son blatantly lacked. Draco was arrogant and bad-mannered, while his father was haughty yet polite, the picture of strength and superiority.

Yet there had been something else in his eyes as they had lingered on Hermione, something she had not fully understood. It was something that should not have been there, she knew that much. She had seen men look at her like that and it had never failed to make her feel ill at ease.

But Hermione had found herself unable to look away. He had initiated the eye contact and he would be the one to end it; she could only look meekly back into the sharp gaze that manifested such power and control. Control over _her_.

Not to mention that he was, without a doubt, the most handsome man she had ever met …

Hermione could not stop the heat that had rushed into her cheeks. She had been sure he had noticed it too and that had made her blush even harder. Angry with herself, she had looked back at him with narrowed eyes, a desperate attempt at feigning defiance, but she still could not avert her gaze.

At that moment, she had remembered how she had indirectly fought against him, when she had helped Hagrid prepare Buckbeak the Hippogriff's defence – but she had known the uselessness of it all along, despite her assurances to Hagrid and Harry. She had known that they had stood no chance against _that_ man. Hermione could never match his skills at persuading and manipulating people – and deep down, she admired him.

When she had found herself looking into his eyes for the first time, Hermione had been captivated by the wizard who had stared at her in a way that should have offended her. And after that … the next time she had seen him, at the Department of Mysteries nearly two years later, she had been careful not to look into his eyes; she had been afraid that just like the last time, she wouldn't be able to look away. Or she would do something foolish, something that involved tricking Harry into giving her the prophecy so that she could … _No!_ she had thought, horrified by her own ideas. She had been shaking with terror as she whispered Harry's instructions to the other children.

That day, she had been too busy protecting Harry. Too scared as well, and not without reason. Madam Pomfrey had said afterwards that it was a miracle that she had survived Dolohov's curse. A deadly curse which, whether spoken aloud or not, never failed to kill the victim. The mediwitch had compared Hermione's case to Harry's survival of the Killing Curse ("No less miraculous – and just as unprecedented. A first in history, Miss Granger.").

Then, the encounter in her seventh year …

The night after their last NEWT, the trio had decided to make a late-night escapade into Hogsmeade to celebrate the end of the exams on Ron's reckless suggestion. Hermione had been firmly opposed to the idea; as Head Girl, it had been her responsibility to maintain discipline and ensure the safety of the students, including her friends. When Harry and Ron had thick-headedly refused to listen to her, Hermione had ended up going to Dumbledore to inform him of her friends' foolish plan. But instead of just forbidding them to leave the castle like Hermione would have liked, the old wizard had contacted the Order and arranged for someone to accompany them in case something happened.

It was very unfortunate that the guard consisted of one single person, and it was even less fortunate that said person was one very clumsy Auror: Tonks.

It wasn't like the High Street had been deserted. No, there were loads of seventh-year students who, like them, had gone out to celebrate the end of school with their friends, and many of whom, drunk, were staggering around the streets of the only exclusively magical town in Britain. Luckily, Hermione and Tonks managed to keep Harry and Ron from drinking too much. They hadn't touched anything stronger than Butterbeer themselves.

Somehow, when Harry, Ron, Hermione and Tonks (who had taken the appearance of a strict witch old enough to be their grandmother) took a walk on one of the smaller, parallel streets, Tonks tripped on something – or perhaps it was a Trip Jinx – and collapsed on the ground so abruptly that she rolled on the pavement all the way into a deserted adjacent alley where she lay unmoving. Hermione would later find out that the Auror would regained consciousness shortly into the fight that ensued and, unnoticed by the attackers, would contacted the Order.

The three seventh-years, under Harry's lead, didn't hesitated to rush to their guard's aid. Within seconds, they were surrounded by a group of black-cloaked wizards. Harry, Ron and Hermione took out their wands instantly and Hermione hid behind a bush. The Death Eaters hadn't noticed her, as she had been some ten feet away from Harry and Ron when the attack had occurred.

She watched as Ron ended up in a full wizard's duel with one Death Eater while Harry was fighting three at once, dodging curses from all directions and at the same time looking for a way to distract their attackers. Hermione was preparing to cast a Stunner at one of the cloaked figures from her hiding place when Harry did something very stupid. When he looked around and failed to see her anywhere, he did the worst thing possible in the circumstances. Harry shouted, "HERMIONE, WHERE ARE YOU?" thus alerting the Death Eaters to her presence.

Hermione was intending to rush out from behind the shrubbery to fight the Death Eaters, because it would have been useless to stay there once her position had been discovered, but she never had the time. She hadn't noticed one of the Death Eaters creeping up behind her.

A Disarming Charm hit her in the back. Her wand flew out of her hand to land some ten feet away.

What followed was a sequence of events that Hermione would never forget, because it was something that would change her forever, although to this day she still did not realise how much. Nevertheless, no matter how many times she was questioned about it, Hermione hadn't told a soul about what truly happened.

Hermione had prepared to pounce at her wand, but before could take a single step, a hand had grabbed her shoulder and dragged her into a shadowed corner.

She found herself with her back against the brick wall of an abandoned wizard house. Her eyes darted around frantically, searching for a way to escape … but there was none, she realised as she felt a wand pressing between her ribs.

Hermione closed her eyes; she had given up hope, surrendering herself to her captor's will. _I'm going to die_, she thought in resignation, tears forming in her eyes.

Then the Death Eater kissed her on the lips.

Hermione jerked back in shock, her eyes wide open – but there was nowhere to flee, nowhere to run. The back of her head hit the hard wall. She winced in pain, disorientated.

That moment of distraction was enough for the hooded wizard, whose face she was unable to see in the darkness, to force her arms up above her head in one swift movement, and she found herself trapped and helplessly pressed against his body. Holding her wrists together in one hand, he slipped his other hand under the collar of her robes …

Hermione had struggled weakly, but to no avail. The Death Eater's grip had tightened painfully around her wrists, the smooth fabric of his hood brushing against her forehead as he held her lips in a crushing kiss, and with a soft "_Oh_!", she had stopped resisting. Then a fleeting touch on her breasts had sent a jolt through her body and Hermione had closed her eyes, overwhelmed.

The man's hands hadn't been warm like most people's, nor icily cold – no, they had been something in between, cool enough to cause Hermione to shiver as she felt them on her bare skin, yet not cold enough to make the contact painful.

Hermione had not known who he was, but she had known this had to be a terribly controlling man. From the way the way he kissed, she had felt as though she belonged to him, body and soul …

She knew that she should feel disgusted; he surely hadn't asked if she wanted him doing _that_ to her … but she had always dreamt of being kissed like that, by a powerful, forceful older wizard …

There were popping sounds on all sides, signalling the arrival of the Order. "Well, well, well … it would appear that your friends have arrived to rescue you. We'll continue this another day, my dear girl," the stranger said in a drawling voice. He caressed her throat briefly before Apparating away.

Hermione had nearly collapsed out of shock. Sheer courage had prevented her from fainting.

Not wanting to repeat their experience at the Department of Mysteries, the Death Eaters had Disapparated as soon as they had seen the Order members. Hermione had looked around to where her friends had been standing huddled together.

Ron had been looking like he barely managed to stand – there had been a bleeding gash on the side of his face and several wounds on his arms. Tonks had had bruises on her face from where she had hit the pavement when she had fallen. Hermione herself, although physically unharmed, had looked like she had been hit by some unknown Dark curse, judging by the absent expression in her eyes. Harry alone had appeared unharmed and fully alert, his green eyes flashing, his wand aloft as though expecting the Death Eaters to reappear. At that moment already, one could have seen in him the formidable Auror that he would become.

Hermione had heard Harry's anxious voice calling to her, but she had been too dazed to respond. When one thought about it, her behaviour had very much resembled the way Harry had acted when he had come back to the Gryffindor common room after kissing Cho Chang in fifth year.

Her best friends had exchanged worried glances. "What did they do to her?" Harry had wondered aloud.

"Hermione, are you all right?" Ron had asked.

"Yes, fine, I'm fine," she had replied distantly. Harry and Ron had looked at each other dubiously, and with good reason. But they would never know what had truly happened.

They would later assume that the experience had been so terrible, so traumatising that Hermione couldn't speak of it even to her best friends. Once she had got over the shock, she had kept the secret zealously, but not for the reason her friends and Dumbledore had believed.

Hermione had actually felt flattered. All the times she had been called a Mudblood and looked upon as though she were filth, both by Slytherins at Hogwarts and by even some fellow Ministry officials later on … and yet the most unlikely person, a wizard who was one of the most adamant promoters of pure-blood superiority in Britain, had _kissed_ her. She could never fathom why he had done it. Why had he deigned to touch an inferior, a Muggle-born witch?

Years had passed; Hermione had gone into Auror training and qualified as a novice Auror after the three-year term, then had gradually risen in rank to become one of the most respected Dark-wizard-catchers. But she could never forget, no matter how desperately she tried to. Late at night the memory would come back to her and his touch would haunt her in her dreams.

She often thought of the wizard who had kissed her so passionately in the dark, and she dreamed of him continuing what he had started, what would have happened if the Order had not arrived. It was the darkest of her dreams, her shame …

Hermione considered herself a strong-willed woman. She had been horrified by how easily this man could subdue her and make her feel like she was nothing but his possession. She had almost reconsidered her decision to become an Auror, if only so that she would never have to see him again … She had considered becoming an Unspeakable instead, to spend her days locked away in the Department of Mysteries that evoked such distressing memories in her.

But in the end, she had realised that she wanted to fight. She craved the thrill of battle, the challenge, the risk. So she had become an Auror. At night, the darkness called to her, and she followed, her insides filled with a mysterious thrill, a nervous anticipation as she thought that maybe, just maybe she would meet _him_ across the battlefield, they would duel, he would overpower her like he always had, and then …

In the present day, Hermione looked up at him in puzzlement. Why had he touched her that day?

And why was he doing so now? Her, a witch of impure blood … why hadn't he ever called her by the foul word his son always used? Hermione was frankly bewildered, but she did not flinch at his mocking words, nor did she jump back in revolt at the touch of his hand. She didn't move, because she didn't know how she was supposed to react.

His white hands wrapped deftly around her neck. "Submit to me like a good girl –"

He caressed her throat. Hermione shivered at the cool, velvety touch.

"– or they might find your cold, dead body in some dark corner, showing the distinct symptoms of strangulation …"

Hermione's face went very pale. For the past couple of years, smothered corpses of prominent people in the anti-Voldemort movement had been turning up on the streets of wizarding London. The Aurors had tried to find the culprit with no success. Hermione now knew who was responsible for these deaths … and she would be the next victim unless she surrendered to this man. _No …_

Her breathing quickened. She didn't want to die … oh, why had she had the foolish idea to go outside today? If she had been more cautious, she could have easily avoided this disaster …

She looked fearfully at the blond Death Eater whose smug expression told her that he was aware of what she had just realised.

"Submit to me and you need not get hurt … I may even be gentle with you," he said softly, moving his hands down her neck and under her robes to caress her in inappropriate places. Hermione glared at him indignantly as she repressed a frisson.

He chuckled, not fazed in the least. "Dear, dear, aren't you a fiery one …"

The light, chilling touch sent shivers through her entire body. She knew that she ought to push him away, to recoil as if burnt. This was an enemy. This man commanded the Death Eaters and directed the attacks that the Ministry had to clean up after. This was a man she was supposed to loathe. But right now she couldn't find the willpower to fight this … this murderer. Right now, she didn't care that he had killed several of her colleagues. She just couldn't find the resolve to oppose him …

He reached out a hand to stroke her cheek and she stared into his cold grey eyes. Maybe it was just her imagination, but she thought there was something else in them, something deeper behind the burning desire … something that made her feel special.

_Why fight?_ Hermione wondered abruptly. _Why resist? When was the last time a man looked at me this way?_ But the voice of reason that she nearly always heeded was mercilessly shouting reprimands in her head: _You can't, you're an Auror and a member of the Order! Sleeping with the enemy – willingly – is treason! What would Harry and Ron think? You are supposed to be their best friend!_

But all these excuses suddenly seemed trivial to Hermione. What would Harry and Ron think of her if they knew which house she had almost been sorted into at Hogwarts? Cleverness and ambition, indeed … she could just as well wonder what they would think if they knew the other things she had never bothered telling them, like her interest in the Dark Arts, her exasperation with Arthur Weasley's Muggle mania and what she really thought of Harry's reckless _saving-people thing_ … No, there was no point in making assumptions about what her best friends would think. They wouldn't think _anything_ if she was dead by tomorrow morning … Besides, as Dolores Umbridge had once said – and Hermione had to concede that the words made sense – _what they don't know won't hurt them_.

"What I want from you?" he growled in her ear, "Your body … and your soul. Give me what I desire and I may not take your life as well."

And Hermione wanted to give it to him.

She looked at the handsome wizard holding her, pale hair shining in the dim light, eyes gleaming with a dark desire … she noticed, now, that his hair was a shade darker than his son's, and it was also sleeker, more shiny. Draco's hair was a white-blond colour, she remembered, while his was a pale yellow, a strangely cold shade of gold. It was the colour of moonlight, a warm yet oddly chilling colour …

_I have no control over the situation,_ she convinced herself. No, she wasn't doing this because she wanted to but only because _she didn't want to die_. And it wasn't like she could stop him. He was her superior physically and magically; what he wanted, he would get – by force or not. If he was planning to have his way with her, there was nothing she could do. So why not make the best of it? He was very good-looking, after all, and he was treating her quite nicely …

Hermione's ability to form words coherently seemed to have left her. Her legs felt heavy and she was shivering from a desire repressed for years, reignited like a thousand sparks under his touch. No one had ever made her feel something like this, not Viktor, Ernie or any other boy she had dated. This was a need so intense that it was painful …

She leaned back against the couch and closed her eyes, trusting him for now. There was nothing else she could do. Through closed eyes, she imagined his approving look and felt a strange warmth fill her.

When his lips met hers, every thought of struggle left her mind. It was just like the last time: the kiss drained her of all willpower, and when he lifted her up and carried her into a smaller, darker room that must have been a bedroom, she made no move to protest.

"Do not tell me you haven't dreamt of this day as I have," he whispered. "Let me claim you."

And she did.

Hermione did not rebel against the command of someone to whom she knew she was but a lowly Mudblood. The red of her battle robes clashed with his black ones as she lay beneath him. The violent contrast of the two colours was symbolic of the Light side's defeat, proof of the Dark's supremacy.

Red and black. Light and Darkness. Good and evil. Gryffindor and Slytherin. Muggle-born and the purest of bloods. Auror and Death Eater … they were all that, each a representative of opposing sides of the world. She was an advocate of justice, a defender of the weak, an activist for noble causes, and he sought just the opposite: to turn time back to the ages when equality had been a nonexistent concept, when blood, class and traditions had ruled indisputably.

Ministry witch and Order member Hermione, by surrendering to this man, had acknowledged the doctrine established by Salazar Slytherin and perpetuated by the Dark side for a thousand years, the same one currently promulgated under Voldemort's leadership. The creed which dictated that Muggle-borns were inferior to pure-bloods, that the Light should bow to the Dark and that good was weaker than evil.

That night, as she lay submissively in a Death Eater's arms, Hermione wondered for the first time in her life whether she truly belonged on the Light side, _or not …_

She had never considered it before; it was as if she had never been given a choice. Upon her induction into the wizarding world, she had been sorted into Gryffindor and made friends with the children of those on the side of the Light, never truly realising that there was another option. Had she chosen to be on the Light side? No, it was the only side she knew, the only one she could be on, or so she had always believed.


	3. An Auror's Duty

_Disclaimer__: The Harry Potter universe and its components belong to their creator, J. K. Rowling._ _No money is being made and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended with this work._

AN : If you're interested, I have expanded on the idea of Hermione helping Lucius at the Department of Mysteries in another story called _Unthinkable_, which features a younger and more innocent Hermione.

* * *

— CHAPTER THREE —

_**An Auror's Duty**_

The torch's amber flame flickered on the wall, keeping the rest of the room in shadow. But Hermione's eyes had become accustomed to the darkness, although she deliberately tried to keep them shut. When she felt a kiss on her neck, she looked up to meet the Death Eater's half-closed eyes, and what she saw in them shocked her into speechlessness. For a moment, she saw rapture, gratitude, affection … what she saw couldn't be more different from his cool expression earlier that evening. She was amazed that this look was _for_ her and because of her, that she had given him such pleasure …

He pulled her even closer, resting his head in the crook of her shoulder, and fell asleep almost instantly. On some strange impulse, she reached out with her hand and stroked his hair, wondering, _why? Why did I let him …?_

He was still on top of her, trapping her under him, so heavy she that couldn't move an inch. Hermione lay beneath him, wide-awake and alert, thinking, wondering …

She held her breath, afraid of waking him. She didn't think she could face him in the morning. She wouldn't be able to stand the shame of it or the smugness that she was sure she would see in his eyes … the mark on his arm was a harsh reminder of what he was, and she was afraid of what he would do to her once he regained his senses. She didn't think he would just let her leave.

What would he demand of her next? And more frighteningly, would she be able to deny him?

He might even change his mind and kill her, now that he had taken what he wanted from her … and now that she knew the location of their hideout …

No, by the time he would awaken, she had to be gone, she decided as she lay in his hold uncertainly, trying not to move. She felt the heat of his body and she found it somewhat comforting. She closed her eyes …

When it was morning and a ray of sunlight filtered into the room through the black curtains, Hermione awoke on satin sheets in a bed that clearly wasn't hers, next to a man with glossy blond hair. The events of the previous night came crashing down upon her like a wave of cold water. She had slept with a Death Eater. _Willingly_. Well, almost. She hadn't really had a choice, since he would have forced her anyway. But she hadn't even protested. No, she had actually enjoyed it.

It was unlike anything she had ever felt before. He had commanded her every move, staring down at her in utter dominance … one thing was certain: Hermione had never known such pleasure.

_Traitor_ , hissed her conscience. This was so wrong … so very wrong. She was supposed to hate him; she was supposed to feel disgusted to be the object of his selfish, demeaning lust … not docilely let him have his way and enjoy every minute of it. But she had never truly hated him, had she? She had feared him, yes, but never hated. _Oh my goodness, what have I done?_

Mr Malfoy was still sound asleep, his arms wrapped possessively around her. However, he had shifted in his sleep, and she was no longer trapped underneath him.

_Where is my wand?_ she wondered. Then she remembered him putting it away into an inner pocket of his cloak. His cloak, which he had left on a hall stand near the door …

Somehow, she managed to extricate herself from the Dark wizard's embrace without waking him. From what she could see, he wasn't a light sleeper, and she thanked Merlin for that. Buttoning her robes, she stood and tiptoed of the room as quietly as possible. Now was the time to put to practice the lessons of stealth she had been given during her training.

She cautiously made her way into the sitting room and towards the hall stand where their cloaks hung. She groped through the pockets of the luxurious black cloak that he had been wearing yesterday until she felt a wooden stick that felt familiar. She grabbed it and stuffed it into her pocket quickly, listening for any sound from the bedroom.

All was silent, meaning that the Dark wizard was still asleep. Hermione's cloak was suspended next to his, its vibrant colour clashing with everything in the room. She lifted it off the hook and replaced it around her shoulders, securing the clasp with shaking fingers. Her robes were horribly wrinkled; luckily, it hid them almost completely.

She hesitated for a moment before pulling out her wand, deciding to use the occasion to capture the oblivious Death Eater sleeping in the other room. She walked stealthily back into the bedroom, careful not to make a sound on the wooden floor.

She stared at him. He looked so defenceless, lying there with his eyes closed, oblivious to the fact that an Auror was standing over him with a wand. Falling asleep surely hadn't been his intention, and Hermione could hardly believe that a Death Eater would make such a fatal mistake. It would be a great feat for her if she brought him in; she would receive a considerable advancement at the Ministry …

Any other would have jumped at the chance, the godsent opportunity, a chance she wouldn't get again. It had been his mistake to fall asleep in her presence, leaving her unrestrained, and that mistake was going to be his undoing ... really, Death Eaters desperately needed some of the 'constant vigilance' lessons the Aurors had to take.

And yet … he looked so vulnerable, his pale skin contrasting against the black sheets, silver-blond hair on the pillow … it was almost as if, subconsciously, he had trusted her, and she felt more like watching over him in his sleep than taking advantage of the moment to catch him unprepared. She was seized with a sudden pity. It wouldn't be ethical to take advantage of this moment …

_Ethical? But he's a Death Eater; he has killed dozens – if not hundreds – of people!_ But she couldn't bring herself to say the spell that would take him to Azkaban, not when he had treated her so civilly last night, like a _lover_ … and it had felt so _right_ …

Her wand raised, Hermione stood over him indecisively.

He opened his eyes suddenly, blinking before focusing on her. It took an effort not to look away from the cold grey irises which quickly went from mild surprise to worry to alarm as he noticed the wand aimed at his head. His white face became paler than she had ever seen it.

But he seemed to regain control of his emotions rather quickly. Soon, she could not discern anything but cold indifference in his eyes, and notwithstanding his pallor, the expression on his face was strangely neutral, almost mask-like.

"So. I see those Auror instincts have finally awoken from their desire-induced torpor … in fact, I find it flattering that I kept them dormant for such a remarkable amount of time," he drawled.

Hermione felt her cheeks heat up under his emotionless gaze.

"I have committed a grave imprudence, I admit … and how could I not have expected a vengeful Auror to seize the opportunity?"

_A vengeful Auror?_ She wondered what this was about. Did he actually think she wanted revenge for what he had, er, done to her last night? Did he believe she was angry with him for _that_? It was an idea she would have expected from a Hogwarts fifth-year …

"_Well?_ Are you going to send me back to Azkaban?" he said nonchalantly.

There was something in the way he pronounced 'Azkaban' that made her feel sorry for reminding him of it, but she refused to think about it. She was an Auror and she was going to act like one.

"Does that prospect worry you?" she asked, not without a hint of cruelty, imitating his earlier question about whether she was 'scared'.

As soon as she said the words, she felt like apologising for them. This situation felt strange. It felt _wrong_. It was supposed to be him standing over her, threatening and taunting her, not the other way around. Hermione had the distinct impression that she was disobeying some kind of law or command, even if it only existed in her heart.

"Why would it worry me? The Dark Lord would get me out of that place in no time, Granger, so I do not see why you even bother. Really, what's the use of chasing after Dark wizards only to place them in a prison where they stay for days and get away? Quite pointless, if you ask me … I so hope they are paying you overtime …"

Hermione flushed like a Weasley. Everyone knew that the Aurors' hard work was underpaid, and it was very frustrating when Voldemort broke out his followers every time in spite of the security measures.

He sounded calm and collected. Only pallor of his face betrayed the fear he felt. He was more than worried – he was frightened. In truth, he wasn't sure that the Dark Lord would go to the trouble of breaking him out of Azkaban for the second time. He had done it last time only because he had _needed_ his followers to consolidate his return. But now? He wasn't so certain.

In fact, the Dark Lord had been harsh towards him recently and he feared the consequences if he displeased his Master again. The Dark Lord still hadn't forgotten about his failure to retrieve the prophecy from the Department of Mysteries, nearly seven years ago, nor had he forgiven – after all, he had lost the chance of ever gaining knowledge of the prophecy.

He could not believe that he had fallen asleep, thus giving an Auror the perfect opportunity to apprehend him. In fact, it was a wonder that he was not back in Azkaban yet. He suppressed a shiver at the memory of that place. He had spent a week in there and it had been enough. He never wanted to return to Azkaban, even if there were no Dementors there.

He had spent only a few hours in the presence of the Dementors. They had left Azkaban as soon as they had sensed the Dark Lord's call, and that had happened hours after his imprisonment. But he still could not just _leave_ the prison. Sirius Black, in his Animagus form, had been thin enough to slip through the bars, but he was not an Animagus. He and the others had had to wait until the Dark Lord had sent someone to unlock the cells, and the Dark Lord had taken his time, no doubt hoping that a sojourn in that place would serve as a lesson to his Death Eaters. The Dark Lord had been very displeased with them indeed – twelve fully trained wizards thwarted by six _schoolchildren_!

How could he have fallen asleep? How could he have been so imprudent? It was simply … he couldn't help it. He had thought and dreamt of her for eight years, and to hold her after all this time had been so gratifying … he had desired her for years, and now that he finally had her, it had slipped his mind that she was an Auror. Her behaviour certainly hadn't helped remember it … he had found and claimed her before she became one, and to him, she would always remain the girl who had bravely, but not unblushingly, held his gaze in the World Cup stands. It had been an added pleasure to have her at his mercy now that she was a deadly enemy, a hunter of Dark wizards …

What surprised him was that she was still standing here, threatening him with her wand but not cursing him yet. The Aurors were trained to capture Dark wizards at all cost, their entire lives consisted of it … surely she should have acted by now, instead of bothering with this chit-chat. If she truly had the intention of sending him to Azkaban … he could not see why she was wasting time. But she didn't look very determined, did she? It actually appeared as if she were hesitating. Why?

Hermione thought of the glory that would be hers, the promotion that she would get if she was the one to apprehend Voldemort's right-hand man … she raised her wand, pointed it at his face – but as she met these cold grey eyes, the eyes that had haunted her dreams for the past eight years, she felt weak in the knees. She remembered the vulnerability she had seen in his eyes that night, and something within her paralysed her. She opened her mouth but found herself unable to utter an incantation. Even if she could, her aim would have been off, so much her hand was shaking.

_You're stupid!_ screamed a voice in her head. Yes, she was really just a silly girl, if she was considering betraying the Ministry and the Order for a Death Eater who had always considered her inferior.

His gaze moved over her, full of mockery, pretending not to see the wand in her hand. "My dear Auror, you were far less bothersome when you were imploring me to touch you."

Hermione blushed again. She imagined how he was going to brag about this, in great detail, to his fellow Death Eaters. No, she had to make sure he would be safely in prison – then he wouldn't be able to tell anyone that he had pushed her into things no self-respecting woman would have done.

His white hand grabbed her wrist. "Now, girl, enough of this inanity," he snarled. "Give me that wand, as you are obviously in no condition to use it."

Hermione was tempted to just do as he said, but she felt her hackles rise at being called 'girl'. There was a reason why she had been sorted into Gryffindor, and her courage had chosen this moment to come to the surface. No, she wasn't just a _girl_ and she wouldn't obey someone who called her one. She wouldn't submit to a Death Eater – _but you already have!_ shouted her conscience – yes, she had, but she wouldn't do it again. Not this time.

Yet she couldn't bring herself to say the spell that would bring him to Azkaban. She just couldn't.

She had always been a clever witch. It didn't take her long to realise why she was, for once, unable to do her duty. She hadn't had any qualms about arresting Dark wizards before, so why now? What was different this time? Oh, she knew, she knew exactly _what_ it was that held her back.

_No!_ she thought in utter despair, _I can't love him! He's a Death Eater, an enemy, a murderer … I _can't _love him!_

But she did.

She stood there, with him holding – no, clutching her wrist while she held her wand in her other hand, aiming it between his eyes, the incantation on the tip of her tongue …

"I will not let you go," he murmured.

But she couldn't stay here. She had to leave; she had a life and a job, even if she had just committed treason. She was late for today's mission and she couldn't afford to disappoint Fudge. The Minister had never favoured her like he did Harry and some others. In spire of all her skills, Hermione was one of the least-paid Aurors. She had known that Fudge was prejudiced against Muggle-borns; she remembered Dumbledore confronting him in fourth year: _You place too much importance, and you always have done, on the so-called purity of blood!_ But she had never expected she would be paid less because she was the only Muggle-born Auror ("Less qualified," according to Fudge) … it had been a nasty surprise.

Fighting with every fibre of her brain, Hermione forced herself to speak the incantation. "_Stupefy_!"

His pale face expressed deep surprise. He hadn't expected her to actually do it. But he had no one to blame for this but himself. How could he have been foolish enough to think she would overlook her precious Auror duty for _him_?

In the split second before the jet of red light struck him, Hermione saw a look of anguish in his eyes, and her own gaze reflected regret and a humble plea for forgiveness. In that instant, she knew she would never be able to hand him over to the Ministry. "I'm sorry … forgive me," she whispered.

Wrapping her cloak tightly around herself, she Apparated back to her home, leaving the stunned Death Eater behind. Neglect of duty, according to the Auror code, and it was the first time Hermione had (deliberately) failed to fulfil the obligations of her job. And she wasn't even remorseful about it.

**-**

Glancing at the clock – _7:26_ – Hermione knew that she was seriously late. She had agreed to meet Ron, who was her partner for this mission, at King's Cross nearly half an hour ago so that they could walk to the St Pancras railway station in time to catch a train to Leeds. At least Ron had not come over to her flat to check on her because she was late … _but he'll be here any moment_, she thought as she quickly changed into Muggle clothes.

How could she explain this? She couldn't tell him the truth. Even if she left out the part about her doing nothing to attempt to escape, Ron would be mad at her. Well, perhaps not entirely at _her_, but he would still be mad, and knowing Ron's temper, it was never a good thing.

No, telling Ron the truth was out of the question. He would cast her out and condemn her for 'fraternising with the enemy'. She could imagine his reaction: 'Hermione, how could you? You're nothing but a traitor!'

It had been very unwise to go outside at night, to begin with. And considering Hermione's position as an Auror, when she had the chance, she should have Stunned him and brought him to Azkaban. The Ministry had been trying to capture him for ages, but he had managed to get away every time. She had been stupid to let such an opportunity slip between her fingers. But the truth was, she wasn't sure she wanted to … she had no intention of –

_Crack._

She was about to stick her wand into the pocket of her coat when a Muggle-dressed Ron Weasley Apparated next to her.

"HERMIONE! ARE YOU ALL RIGHT? WHERE WERE YOU? WE'RE GOING TO BE LATE!" he shouted. His jeans looked a little faded and his jumper could have used a repairing charm in several places, but otherwise he looked no different from the average Muggle.

Hermione did not want to lie to her friends. She wished that she could tell the truth, but she would never be able to. Not to Ron, not to anyone. This was a matter of survival.

Some of the distress she felt must have been visible on her face, because Ron looked at her carefully, concern appearing in his eyes. _Time to practice my acting skills …_

She had fooled Professor McGonagall at eleven and faked a fit of tears in front of Umbridge at fifteen. Lying to one of her friends was different, but she was sure that she could do this. If she had successfully hidden the fact that she was using a Time-Turner from Harry and Ron for their entire third year, then this shouldn't a problem. Hermione had always been good at keeping secrets and she could be a good liar when necessary.

"I'm sorry, Ron, I overslept," she lied lamely. Oh, wait, that was the truth … "I thought the mission started at eight o'clock. It's only seven-thirty."

She hoped that in this hurry, the peculiarity of this would not occur to Ron: Hermione had never slept late, not even during her teenage years at Hogwarts.

"No, it was at seven! I've been waiting for you at King's Cross since SEVEN O'CLOCK!"

"Oh – _what_? Merlin, I'm so sorry … let's go! Oh my goodness, we'll miss the train!" she squealed with a hysterical expression.

"Whoa, Hermione … calm down! It's not the end of the world …" Ron tried to comfort her, though his next words proved that he really was rubbish at consoling people. "We'll Apparate directly, though – no time for a walk now. We'll be lucky to catch that train at all …"

_That was easier than I expected, _ she thought with relief as they Disapparated together to the Muggle railway station of St Pancras.


	4. Instincts of Treason

_Disclaimer__: The Harry Potter universe and its components belong to their creator, J. K. Rowling._ _No money is being made and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended with this work. Er, and one more thing – thank you, Wikipedia. ;)_

* * *

— CHAPTER FOUR —

_**Instincts of Treason**_

The two Aurors had been given the mission of investigating the repeated sightings of Dark wizards and Dementors in Leeds. For the sake of discretion, they had been instructed to use Muggle rail to get to their destination, because Apparition could be magically tracked. Hermione had blushed and clenched her teeth before asking Ron whether he had brought his pouch of Muggle pounds because she had forgotten to go to Gringotts to exchange enough galleons to pay for her own ticket.

She had handled the task of buying the tickets, though, because Ron was no good with Muggle money, and that was quite lucky, actually, since he had brought thirty pounds, which was more than enough to pay both their tickets. Apparently, the brochures the Office of Misinformation had provided to them had been outdated, and Midland Mainline had since increased the ticket fares twofold.

Seated next to Ron on a comfortable, if not very clean cloth-lined seat in the moving Master Cutler, Hermione ignored her Ron's attempts at conversation. Instead, she let her mind drift away from the crowded compartment to a memory that had been haunting her since the age of eleven.

It was Hermione's first day at Hogwarts. She was peering curiously at the enchanted ceiling, currently of a midnight blue, almost black colour sprinkled with stars. She had read in _Hogwarts, A History_ that it was charmed to look exactly like the sky outside. She had read all the textbooks before school started and knew all the hexes by mind, for she, along with many other first-years, was expecting an admission test.

But unlike the other first-years, Hermione knew a lot about the four Hogwarts houses. For instance, she knew that You-Know-Who had been in Slytherin. Personally, she hoped she would be sorted into Gryffindor – it appeared to be the best of the houses, but Ravenclaw didn't seem bad either. Courage and intelligence were qualities that she wanted to develop and perfect in herself.

She was a nervous and overexcited little girl, waiting for her turn to be sorted. When her name was called, she almost ran her way to the wooden stool. Oblivious to the entire Great Hall's eyes on her, she pulled the tattered hat frantically over her head and waited, barely able to contain her excitement. Then, out of nowhere, a tiny voice began to speak.

"Hum, quite difficult. I see lots of ambition … eagerness to learn, and – oh, a desire to prove yourself despite your background … you're ready to do anything to prove you're the best. I see that you won't content yourself with being average; you won't let your blood and upraising hold you back. So where shall I place you?"

"Aren't you the Sorting Hat?" she thought, "You aren't supposed to _ask_ me, right?"

"Hmm … Hasty in taking sides, and once you've made a decision, you rarely reconsider. There's a remarkable selflessness, yes – you don't care about your own fate as long as those you care about are protected, and you let nothing stand in your way to help them. Such great loyalty … oh, blessed are those you choose to side with –"

"Are you considering placing me in _Hufflepuff_?" she thought, horrified.

The tiny voice chuckled. "You would never fit in there. Very difficult indeed … I see a lot of intellectual potential, a sharp mind, no doubt about that, but – oh my goodness, no, you aren't suited for quiet Ravenclaw either. You study not for the sake of knowledge itself but for the power that comes with it, to surpass others, eh? Great ambition, I see. Plenty of determination, too. Once you're set on a goal, you don't tire until you reach it. An interesting combination … oh, oh, one thing is certain, young lady – whichever way you go, whatever path you choose, a brilliant future awaits you."

Hermione suddenly remembered the Hat's song … _use any means to achieve their ends_ … she was now even more horrified than at the prospect of being placed in Hufflepuff. When she had read the section about the four houses in _Hogwarts, A History_, she had never thought about the possibility of ending up in … Slytherin.

The bewitched hat, aware of her thoughts, chuckled again. "Courageous, you speak up and would fight for your beliefs. You have a deep-seated respect for authority, but you would sacrifice your beliefs if it were to help those you care about, now that's interesting … There's also a certain contempt towards others – you know that you surpass them. And I see a penchant to boast; you are already aware of your power, aren't you? For that alone, you _would _fit perfectly in Slytherin … but the underlying intent is purely GRYFFINDOR!"

The last word had echoed in the hall and a startled but beaming Hermione had made her way to the table on the far left, decorated in red and gold, to be enthusiastically greeted by Percy the prefect. But she could have been the first Muggle-born ever to be sorted into Slytherin …

Even in Gryffindor, she had been more Slytherin than would have been proper. When Harry and Ron had been struck dumb with fear, caught by teachers in the girls' bathroom with a concussed troll, she had quickly come up with a plan to save them from possible expulsion, misleading the teachers with a clever lie. And that was nothing compared to how, facing a fate worse than expulsion and watching that horrible Umbridge woman prepare to torture Harry, she had been the only one whose brain hadn't shut down from panic. She had the only one able to come up with a way out, a way out that involved a good bit of playacting and a load of lies that everyone instantly believed. She was still quite proud of the way she had pulled that off …

"Leeds City," announced an amplified voice. Hermione nudged Ron, who had dozen off on his seat. He sat up and rubbed his ribs. Had she elbowed him too hard?

-

Ron gawked at the crowd around them as they walked past a branch of Upper Crust on the ground level of the station. "What language are they speaking?" he asked in an undertone, his nostrils flaring as he inhaled the delicious smells coming from the restaurant.

"English," said Hermione, rolling her eyes. "Honestly, Ron, have you never been out of Surrey? People who live up north don't speak the same way we do – please close your mouth before you start salivating like a dog," she snapped, disgusted. "They're using a West Yorkshire dialect which has retained part of Old Norse grammar, that's why it sounds so unusual to us –" She stopped talking when she saw that Ron wasn't even listening to her. "It's rude to ask someone a question and pay no attention when they answer it, Ron. I can't believe your mother didn't teach you to behave like a civilised person!"

Ron's ears turned slightly pink. "Sorry, Hermione. Er – how can it be English when I don't understand a word? Who in the world calls a cuppa a _brew_? And what on earth is a d'oi – lam?"

She sniggered. "A _doylum_, Ron, is exactly what you're acting like right now."

Ron then complained that his stomach was staring to hurt, and Hermione was starting to feel hungry too. Neither of them had eaten breakfast that morning. They stopped at a restaurant in the arches under the railway station, and after arguing with Ron over the menu for ten minutes, Hermione ordered two portions of Yorkshire Hotpot (Ron had offended the waiter by making retching noises when she explained the ingredients of tripe and black pudding).

It was a disconcerting experience to have trains passing above their heads every five minutes, making the floor shake and giving them a sensation similar to a mild headache. They ate quickly and left the place, paying for their meal with what remained of the Muggle money in Ron's pouch. Hermione bought a copy of the _Yorkshire Post_ on the way.

"What do you need that for?" asked Ron. "It's just Muggle stuff."

"Shush!" hissed Hermione. "If a wizard hears you use that word, we're done for. We're supposed to be pretending we're Muggles!" She looked around quickly to check that no one was paying them attention. "I want something to read if we're going to spend all day _discreetly _observing the city. And you know it doesn't look very discreet if you sit on a bench all day doing nothing except staring at your surroundings."

Emerging from under the brick arches that supported the station, the pair of Aurors walked beside the River Aire, which was a light teal colour that day. The voices talking in strange accents grew fainter in the distance.

They sat on a bench by the river and Hermione promptly hid behind the newspaper.

-

Ron had the common sense of staying silent, and Hermione didn't emerge from her reading until she felt him put his arm around her shoulders. She flinched at the sudden touch.

She raised her eyes from the report of the recent disappearance of a twelve-year-old boy and his grandmother. "Ron, what are you doing?"

Ron withdrew his arm. She saw that his ears were red. "It's bloody _cold_," he said, tugging at the collar of his jumper. He wasn't looking at her. "Why are you so jumpy?"

Hermione looked away. "No reason," she said briskly.

"Right." She saw his other hand move towards the pocket of his trousers where he kept his wand. "It's really cold, Hermione. If we could just –"

"Don't even think about it!" she said, zipping her own coat up to the chin and drawing her hands back into her sleeves so that only the tips of her fingers remained visible. "You should've used your head and brought a coat."

"I don't _have_ a Muggle coat," said Ron. "Why can't we just Conjure cloaks? It's just a swish while no one's looking," – he demonstrated the movement using his hand instead of his wand – "and it's not like the Muggles would see; there'll be no harm done …"

"Ron Weasley, don't be such a _doylum_!Muggles do not wear cloaks! You might not have taken Muggle Studies at Hogwarts, but it was mandatory at the Academy and you even _passed_. I refuse to believe that your memory is already becoming deficient."

Huffing, she turned away from Ron to look at the river in front of them. For a few minutes, she contemplated the reflection of streetlamps on the dark water and the tall buildings rising conspicuously above it.

Then the air became unnaturally cold and the light of streetlamps seemed to dim. Hermione felt an icy coldness wash over her body, and things echoed in her ears, faintly at first, an indiscernible hum of sounds and voices.

"You don't think You-Know-Who …"

Ron's tentative whisper was drowned out by a distant yell of "Chuffin' ell, it's cowd art heear!"

The voices grew louder in Hermione's head. They were the voices of her past, speaking cruel, horrible words that had once made her cry. "_Ugly twit … know-it-all … stuck-up bitch …is she a girl at all?_"

"Dementors?" Ron whispered, and she understood his fear: their collection of bad memories was quite more extensive now than when they had been at Hogwarts.

Ron's voice reverberated off the walls of Hermione's mind and mixed with a spiteful younger version of it. "_Haven't you done enough damage this year? Have you just been to tell on us?_"

"I think so," Hermione whispered back. "Wands out –" She fell silent as other voices drowned out Ron's in her head.

"_I was lucky once, wasn't I? I might get lucky again … let's take out a mirror, just in case … If you want to kill Harry, you'll have to kill us, too!_"

She tried to think of the elation she had felt when the Sorting Hat had called out 'Gryffindor'. Instead, she heard Ron's voice as clearly as that day: "_Whatever house she's in, I hope I'm not in it …_"

She couldn't see … it was so dark and cold suddenly … where was Ron?

"_He's back. Voldemort is back_."

She saw two glowing, bulbous eyes that looked like they were reflected from a mirror in her hand, and she couldn't summon an ounce of happiness … she felt useless and unappreciated …

"_Expecto Patronum_," she said without feeling, her voice dull with the emptiness she felt. The wisp of light didn't even last a second. She heard the rustle of the Dementor's cloak as it glided closer to her …

"_How do we get there?_"

She sensed the creature bending over her. It would be her last kiss …

"… _you may kill the others if necessary …_"

It was as if a jolt of electricity went through her at the memory of that voice. She remembered her last kiss …

It wasn't a happy memory, but if it was the only thing she could think of, the only memory strong enough … she struggled to recall the touch of those cool hands all over her body and the sound of _his_ voice as he crooned commands in her ear …

"_EXPECTO PATRONUM!_"

A silver otter burst out of her wand and chased the Dementors away, leaving a blinding light in its wake. The warmth returned, as did the streetlamps' glow, and she saw Ron lying unconscious on the grass. She grabbed him by the arm and Apparated them both out of there.

It wasn't until later that she would realise that the memory she had called upon wasn't a happy one … or it wasn't supposed to be …

-

A week later, Hermione was sitting in her cubicle at the Auror Headquarters, sipping a cup of tea while reading the morning's _Daily Prophet_, when her friends burst into her cubicle. Harry was in the lead, closely followed by Ron. They yelled incoherently over gasps for breath,

"Attack – Diagon Alley – GO!"

Hermione understood the situation in an instant. Incidents like this had happened before. This was an emergency; their help was needed to save people's lives. She got up and followed her friends as they hurtled frantically past the cubicles; people poked their heads out and stared worriedly as they streaked past.

"ATTACK ON DIAGON ALLEY!" Harry yelled to their colleagues without turning around, and the hurrying trio heard rather than saw their fellow Aurors gasp and start talking urgently amongst themselves to decide whether or not to follow them.

"But Harry, we don't have the Head Auror's clearance," Hermione spoke up.

"You know Shacklebolt is on a mission abroad this week. To hell with it! It's people's lives we're talking about!" he retorted, giving her an irritated look.

Someone else spoke. "Potter, the report said it's a minor disturbance; there are only four or five Death Eaters –"

"Meaning they'll kill a dozen people and go?" said Harry. "It isn't a minor disturbance if there are going to be casualties, and you know there always are, with the Death Eaters …"

"That was nicely argued, Potter, but no one put you in charge while the Head Auror is away on a mission," said Zacharias Smith, who had followed them into Auror training as soon as he had heard that Harry had been accepted, so that he could compete with the Boy Who Lived.

"No one asked for your opinion, Smith," Ron said rudely.

"Please be respectful to your colleagues, Auror Weasley," said Dawlish, poking his head over the wall of his cubicle.

"Sorry," Ron muttered, not looking at Smith.

"Alright, let's go," said Harry resolutely, setting off for the lift at the far end of the corridor. Ron and Hermione followed without a word. Smith watched them go, not moving an inch.

It was impossible to Apparate or Disapparate inside the Ministry of Magic except in the Atrium. The protection spells on the building were similar to those on the Hogwarts castle; no one could break through them, not even a wizard of Voldemort's powers. It was a good thing, but in a situation like this, Hermione sometimes wished they _could_ Apparate instead of losing precious time to reach the base floor.

They finally arrived in the Atrium and the lift opened with its usual clatter. The trio walked straight to the right-hand fireplaces and, rudely pushing everyone aside, each threw a handful of Floo powder into the fire and stepped into the now green flames, yelling, "_Diagon Alley!_" It wasn't safe to Apparate to the scene of an attack without knowing exactly what was happening and which areas were safe to appear in, so they had been advised to avoid it whenever possible.

Emerging from the fireplace in the Leaky Cauldron, they quickly walked out of the door, rolling up their sleeves and pulling out their wands, preparing to fight You-Know-Who's followers.

They were met by a panicked crowd. People were running in all directions and screams of all pitches floated over the street. Five cloaked wizards were sending curses at everyone in sight while a few Ministry wizards were attempting to hit them with beams of crimson light, but kept missing. Light of all colours, white, golden, red and occasionally green flashed, the latter coming exclusively from the Death Eaters and followed by ear-splitting shrieks.

A soft crackling sound filled the street and a skull of green sparks appeared in the sky above them. There was a glittering snake coming out of the skull's mouth. It was the Dark Mark, _i__n all its glory_, Hermione added to herself. She could say that – it _did_ look beautiful, in a certain sense – but since it was associated with terror and death, people usually did not stop to admire the design of the image that was their worst fear. No, they ran.

One of the cloaked figures fired a jet of red light at Harry, who was duelling with another Death Eater and was too distracted to see it. Hermione lunged forward and shrieked, "_Protego!_"

The Stunning Spell bounced back at the hooded person, who fell to the ground. Then she saw someone aiming a wand at her –

"_Imper__—_"

"_STUPEFY!_" she shouted.

The Death Eater conjured a shield and her spell reflected off it. "_Avada Ke_—"

"_Crucio!_" said another Death Eater.

Hermione looked up over her opponent's shoulder … and into the cold grey eyes of the masked man standing behind him. She froze in shock and recognition, only snapping out of it when the spell hit her. She screamed, falling forward onto her knees. Through hazy eyes, she saw a beam of green light fly harmlessly over her. It would have struck her if she had been standing.

When the pain receded at last, she forced herself to get to her feet, leaning a hand on the ground for balance. Her robes were stained from rolling around on the pavement and her hair felt sticky with dirt.

The man who had tortured her exchanged quiet words with the Death Eater she had been duelling. She saw the latter nod, lower his wand and move to attack Ron instead. Then his eyes shifted to her.

She glared at him through her tears. She didn't know whether these were tears of pain or sadness. She still couldn't raise her wand against him. But he clearly had no such scruples. He had just tortured her … he had saved her life by doing so, but he didn't have to use this particular curse and he didn't have to hold it for half a minute after the green flash had faded. However, she didn't want to sink to his level.

Hermione wiped her tears and walked away. He let her go without a word.

She fought the rest of the battle while trying to forget that he was among them, that every masked Death Eater she cursed could be _him_. She duelled as she would have before yesterday, as if her opponents were nothing more than faceless enemies.

A crack announced the arrival of two people whom the Aurors recognised as their fellows in duty by the uniform they were wearing: scarlet robes with a golden 'A' embroidered on the left-hand side of the chest. Neville was dragging a sullen-looking Zacharias Smith with him. Realising that they no longer had the advantage of outnumbering their enemies, the Death Eaters attempted to run.

They were knocked backwards when Harry and Neville yelled, "_IMPEDIMENTA!_" together.

Soon, the favourers surrounded the Death Eaters, two of whom were already motionless on the ground. Five wands rose; five different voices bellowed: "_PETRIFICUS TOTALUS!_"

That did it. The remaining Death Eaters fell to the floor alongside their fellows, rigid as boards. Hermione knew Mr Malfoy was among them, but there was nothing she could do. Maybe she would visit him in prison if she had the chance …

"Summon their wands, Hermione," called Harry, who, by his rank, was in charge of the group. She waved her wand, taking a turn in aiming it at each of the unconscious Death Eaters, before calling out, "_Accio!_"

Five wands zoomed through the air and into Hermione's outstretched hand. Wizards needed a wand to Disapparate; surrounded and without their wands, if the Death Eaters were to awaken, they had no chance of escaping, neither by running nor by Disapparating.

There was another series of _popping _sounds as a group of people in lime-green robes Apparated next to them. They were the emergency team St Mungo's Hospital sent to the scenes of crisis.

Ron had a bloody cut on his forehead and several deep scratches on his forearms. He was holding up Neville, who she suspected had received a Bone-Shattering Curse in his leg. The mediwizards started healing them while Harry walked to stand by Ron and began talking anxiously to a mediwizard. Zacharias Smith stood a few paces away, his arms crossed.

Hermione's knees stung and she was still trembling from the Cruciatus Curse. When the mediwizards would finish with Ron and Neville, she would approach them for a Healing Draught, she decided.

Feeling a gaze on the back of her head, she spun around to look at the magically paralysed Death Eaters. She realised she had made a mistake when, for the second time, her gaze met that of a man who had done unspeakable things to her.

She inhaled sharply, remembering the night she had spent with him, a night she wasn't likely to forget anytime soon … a night that had left her with a shameful, treacherous _craving_ that was slowly driving her _mad_, making her thoughts return to him at the most random moments …

And today, he had _saved her life_ …

She looked around at her fellow Aurors. They were in discussion with the staff of St Mungo's; even Smith was now talking animatedly to an attractive blonde mediwitch._ What should I do?_ Hermione thought frantically. Should she behave like a dedicated Auror or … or like the Slytherin she could have been?

She read a command in the eyes that had been troubling her nights. _Help me_, they dictated, and Hermione raised her wand to obey …

"_Finite Incantato_," she breathed.

She pushed his wand harshly into his hand and Disapparated without a word, but not before catching a glimpse of the stunned disbelief in his eyes. A second later, she reappeared silently on the other side of the group. Usually, Apparition made a sound similar to a _pop_, but it was possible to Apparate noiselessly, although it took a great deal of concentration and frankly, it was very difficult. It had been one of the Stealth lessons during Auror training, but no one except her and Harry had managed it.

She knew it was sheer luck that none of her co-workers had noticed her moving. She faked a look of disbelief when there was a _crack_ and they all turned to see one of the Death Eaters disappear into thin air. There was a moment of stunned silence followed by shouts of "WHAT THE –?" from the dumbfounded Aurors while the mediwizards dutifully began levitating wounded bodies.

"No wizard can Apparate without a wand," said Zacharias Smith. "It is impossible by the laws of magic!"

Harry glanced over at Hermione. "How – er – he's right, that's not possible! You have their wands! How could he Disapparate?"

"_I_ – I don't know," she stuttered, "that was definitely strange. Maybe he had a spare wand? But then we would have it as well, right? I mean, we summoned all their wands. I don't understand …"

Harry shook his head distractedly. "Well, honestly, me neither. Let's bind the others before they escape as well. _Incarcerous!_"

Harry didn't notice that there were four wands instead of five in Hermione's hand.

_You're so clueless, Harry. You would never suspect me of such stupid, outrageous behaviour. And _why_ did I do it, anyway?_ Hermione wondered as she and the other Aurors levitated the bound Death Eaters and Apparated them to gates of the Azkaban fortress. The specifically trained prison guards would take them from there. As ordinary Aurors, they weren't allowed to enter the prison – only the Head Auror, the Head of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement and the Minister for Magic were authorised to go past the gate.


	5. Threats, Reflections and Recollections

— CHAPTER FIVE —

_**Threats, Reflections and Recollections**_

One Friday afternoon, Hermione had her friends to dinner around a rectangular dining table in the kitchen of her humble home, The Wildrose Den. In the wizarding world, every home connected to the Floo Network had an official name, for reasons of convenience. For instance, she could Floo to the Weasleys' family house just by saying 'The Burrow' into the green flames, without having to say (or even know) the full address.

Hermione had christened her flat 'The Wildrose Den' because of the lovely wild rosebushes that grew in the backyard of the small house.

"Dumbledore said there will be an Order meeting on Monday, right?" Harry started.

Ron and Hermione nodded. The three of them, plus Neville, had been members of the Order of the Phoenix for years alongside some of their fellow Aurors (Tonks and Shacklebolt, to name a few). Dumbledore had extended an invitation to them to join the Order right after they had finished Hogwarts, and of course they had accepted.

"Well, I just received a firecall from Williamson this morning. He said my presence is required at some kind of hearing. Apparently, they're going to sentence the Death Eaters we caught and they need witnesses to be present. But I'm wondering why it has to be me. There were five of us and we all saw the same thing, right?"

"You think … you think they're going to ask you questions about the … about what happened?" Ron didn't dare to breach the unmentionable subject, but there was no need for him to say it directly. Everyone knew what he was talking about.

There had been uproar at the Auror Office when the _Daily Prophet_ had caught wind of last week's Diagon Alley incident. The article had been written in a very unsympathetic way, not that anyone would expect Rita Skeeter to talk kindly of the Ministry. That woman had a horrible grudge against the government and she did not keep back from expressing it. Because of her report, the entire second level of the Ministry had been flooded with Howlers and complaints accusing the Aurors of everything ranging from carelessness and incompetence all the way to cowardice and even betrayal.

Hermione winced, remembering a particularly rude Howler which had accused them of purposely letting Death Eaters get away. It hadn't been far from the truth, but it had been very embarrassing, especially since the amplified voice was so loud that the entire department had heard it.

"Yeah, and I … frankly, I don't like it. It's almost as if they're accusing us in particular because we're the youngest in the department …"

"Oh, come on, Harry, no one is accusing you," Hermione cut in firmly. "Honestly, you've been taking lessons from Moody for too long."

Ron snickered, remembering day Harry had returned from lessons with the ex-Auror and knocked out Neville with a disarming spell when the poor boy had Apparated directly into the Grimmauld Place dining room in the middle of an Order meeting, no less. Constant vigilance indeed!

Hermione continued hastily before her two best friends had time to start an argument. "Why you, Harry? It's because you're the _famous_ Harry Potter; why else would it be?" She chuckled, teasing her best friend. Harry obviously didn't enjoy the joke. Even after the years he had had to get used to it, he still hated being reminded of his fame. Hermione thought he was being silly. If _she_ had the chance to have her name mentioned in wizarding history books, she would have enjoyed it immensely.

"Let me guess," she said. "The hearing just happens to be on Monday afternoon, doesn't it?"

"Yeah."

"So what'd you reckon we should do? Should we ask Dumbledore to postpone the meeting? What'd you think, Hermione?"

"I doubt Dumbledore will cancel the meeting just because one member is unable to attend, Ron."

Ron's ears went pink. Hermione looked like she wanted to say something else, but suddenly she fell silent, staring at the open window.

A large eagle owl swooped in through the window. Narrowly missing the top of Harry's head, it soared across the kitchen and flew straight at Hermione. It dropped an envelope on the table in front of her, then turned gracefully, zoomed outside and flew off across the garden.

Hermione stared at the envelope, which was addressed in a neat handwriting she had never seen, elegant swirls inclined slightly to the right, to _Hermione A. Granger, The Kitchen, The Wildrose Den, London, Surrey._

It couldn't be an official message from the Ministry, because the Ministry of Magic never used eagle owls, which were rare and almost exclusively owned by old pure-blooded families. And besides, as she turned the envelope over, the Ministry of Magic seal was nowhere to be found. In its place was a complicated crest which seemed vaguely familiar to Hermione. Where had she seen it before? No doubt in some book, but which one?

Hermione opened it and unfurled the message apprehensively. She stared at the short notice for a moment and paled considerably.

_My dearest Hermione,_

_I would like you to Apparate to the gardens  
near my manor tonight at midnight, or else...  
there will be consequences that you will  
find harrowing if you do not comply with  
this kind request._

_Best regards,_

_L. Malfoy_

The threat went unspoken. _Or else..._ It left much space to her imagination, but she knew what the general meaning was. _Or else_ something terrible will happen. Or else You-Know-Who will come after you. Or else your parents will be killed. Or else your friends might not come back from their next mission … it left a thousand frightening possibilities, none of which she even wanted to consider.

Hermione looked as though she might faint. "Oh my goodness," was all she said.

Harry and Ron exchanged a look and tried to read the letter over Hermione's shoulder, but she incinerated it with a flick of her wand, thus preventing them from ever learning of its contents. She had memorised the whole thing anyway.

Vaguely, she wondered why he hadn't used his title to sign the letter. She had noticed in that genealogy book she had found at Grimmauld Place that the Malfoys were the Lords of a part of wizarding Salisbury, where she assumed their manor was located. Ron's voice brought her out of her academic musings and back into the present that she had wanted to escape.

"What was that?" Her overprotective red-haired 'brother' was interrogating her. "What was in that letter? Why did you look so scared? Who was it from?"

But she didn't answer. She sank into her chair, her face in her hands. _Kind request_ … the words she had just burnt danced under her closed eyelids like flames that refused to die, taunting, tempting, mocking her … _or else_ … she remembered the excruciating pain of the Cruciatus Curse … _consequences _…

"Hermione, are you all right?" Harry asked carefully.

She raised her head. She was still trembling. She swallowed. "I'm – I'm fine, Harry, but I think I need to be alone. Please leave."

Harry and Ron exchanged a look.

"You look far from fine," said Harry.

"Hermione, if it's threats …" started Ron.

She raised her head to look at her best friends. A bit of colour had returned to her cheeks, and although her eyes still looked scared, the expression on her face was one of resolve.

"Harry, Ron, I can fight for myself," she as firmly as she could. "Just go, all right?"

"You _can't_ stand for yourself if someone's _blackmailing_ you! We can help –"

Harry was cut off by Hermione.

"I don't need your protection!" she shouted angrily. "I can fend for myself! Leave or I'll hex you!" And she reached for her wand.

Ron glanced at Harry apprehensively. Hermione's hexes were as bad as Ginny's, if not worse, not to count that their female friend had acquired a dangerous syllabus of Dark spells during Auror training, and they knew for a fact that her knowledge of curses and jinxes exceeded theirs. When angry, the bushy-haired Auror was a dangerous force to be reckoned with. Any woman was – Ron's mother was the perfect example, as was his sister – but their best friend went _wild_ in the rare occasions where she lost her temper.

"Alright, we'll go for now. But if you need help …" Ron trailed off, looking at Hermione warily. She glared fiercely at him, and he was anxious to get the hell away from her if she actually decided to hex him. "I better go." And he Disapparated with a loud _crack_.

Harry stood there for a moment, hesitating. He understood that Hermione wanted to handle the situation on her own, and as an accomplished Auror, she was quite capable of watching out for herself. He was sure that if she needed their help, she would ask for it. She didn't appreciate people prying into her business.

Harry reluctantly admitted to himself that it was best to leave her to her own devices. "Hermione, we just want you to know … er, you're one of my best friends, and friends fight for each other, OK? No matter what happens," he said quietly.

If only Harry really meant these words … and if only Ron shared his beliefs. If only Harry didn't consider Ron more of a friend than Hermione …

"I know, Harry. Just go, please," she said weakly.

"Alright. See you on Monday."

_I hope so_, thought Hermione. _I really hope so._ Personally, she couldn't think of the future at the moment. She had no idea why Voldemort's right-hand man had called her to his house and whether she would leave it alive.

She offered Harry a reassuring smile, and he Disapparated to join Ron.

There was no doubt about what she was going to do. She would follow the instructions in the message; it wasn't like she really had a choice, was it? The choice was to obey or face the terrible consequences. And Hermione would never knowingly endanger her friends and family. She would rather die.

She told herself that she was doing this because she was afraid of what would happen if she didn't, not because she wanted to. At least that was what she wanted to believe.

The vague threat was conveniently aimed to put her conscience asleep, so to say, and that was exactly what it did: it put her conscience and her scruples to sleep.

A rational mind would not have been affected by the unspecified – unspoken even – threat. Lucius Malfoy, who was highly skilled at manipulating people, was aware of the struggle that would be happening in Hermione's head when she would receive the letter, and the elusive 'or else' had been added specifically to give her the illusion that she complied because she _had_ _to_, thus leading her mind away from the other reasons why she might have accepted so readily.

The indefinite warning would give her the impression that she was doing the duty of protecting those close to her, and then she wouldn't need to fight against her conscience like if she realised the real reason why she had resigned herself to heeding his demand.

Yes, the threat was there, but Hermione did not have to believe it. If she did, it was because she _wanted_ to believe it. She did not realise that it was there to conveniently subdue her sense of right and wrong.

-

After her friends had left, Hermione sat on a couch in her sitting room; Crookshanks was curled up next to her. She scratched the ginger cat behind the ears absently. She had no mission for the Ministry this evening, thankfully. Being an Auror was like that: she had to be available twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week, and she never knew when she would be called. The Ministry could not afford to give the Aurors days off, because they never knew when an attack would occur.

_Lives are at stake,_ her teachers at the Auror Academy used to say as if it justified everything. Lives were at stake and that was why Aurors weren't permitted to have lives of their own.

Hermione looked at the framed pictures on the wall across from her. Their occupants were always moving and some appeared to be talking to each other. She had long since become accustomed to the fact that wizarding photos, unlike Muggle ones, were 'alive'.

There was a picture of Harry, Ron and herself on their last day at Hogwarts. It depicted Harry holding up the House Cup over his head, Ron hugging the Quidditch Cup to his chest, and Hermione wearing a gleaming Head Girl badge. Next was a wizard picture of her parents, who smiled and waved at her. And the last one was a snapshot of four people wearing the scarlet Auror uniform, sleeves rolled up and wands aloft as if preparing for a battle. Harry, Ron, Neville and herself all had proud grins on their faces.

She remembered the day the last picture had been taken. It had been the day they had graduated from the Auror Academy, weary and relieved to finish the third year of exhausting training. She remembered that day all too well.

Upon qualifying, every trainee Auror had to take an oath of loyalty to the Ministry and the Light side. Hermione had learnt the Auror Oath by heart, of course, and she still remembered every word.

_I, Hermione Granger, vow to fulfil my responsibilities as an Auror to the best of my abilities and not to abuse the privileges of my job. Should I be called at any hour of day or night to do the noble duty of purging the world of Darkness and evil, I will not hesitate to risk my life in order to save that of others. From this day on, the purpose of my life is to serve the wizarding community of Britain and to protect the Muggles from the knowledge and effects of magic. I will never knowingly endanger my fellow Aurors or the Ministry of Magic and I will alert the Department of Magical Law Enforcement whenever I fall upon information that might prove useful in the hunt for those who practice Dark magic …_

Of course, being Hermione Granger, she obeyed the rules to the letter, and she had never thought she would one day break the oath. She wondered – _pure curiosity_, she assured herself – whether the oath Death Eaters took upon their initiation was any similar. She wasn't sure if she wanted to find out. Although a small part of her, a part she refused to acknowledge, wanted more than just to _find out_ …

_How can I even consider such an outrageous thing? What is wrong with me?_ she admonished herself.

Whether she wanted to admit it or not, she had broken the Auror Oath on more than one occasion. Surprisingly, she did not feel any guilt for it, only a reckless sense of detachment. _What's done is done._

Hermione knew that there was a storehouse of Dark Artefacts at number 25 Knockturn Alley. She had _been_ there. But had she told the Ministry or her fellow Aurors? No, because that would mean having to answer questions about _how_ she had come across the place and what she had been doing in it. And that, in turn, would lead to other complications such as having to admit to having broken not only another – and the most important – part of the oath, but also the magical law itself.

She had sworn to do her best to fulfil her _responsibilities as an Auror,_ which were to arrest any Death Eater she came across, or at least attempt to. She hadn't even tried. Worse, she had voluntarily helped a Death Eater escape capture. For that alone, her Auror license could be revoked and she could find herself in Azkaban if her actions were to be brought to court.

_What's done is done,_ Hermione repeated to herself. There was no point in dwelling on the past, because it could not be changed. Even if she _could_ change it, if she had currently possessed a Time-Turner, she wasn't sure she wanted to. And that in itself frightened her the most.

She preferred not to think of it, no more than she chose not to think of what was going to happen tonight. What she was going to do … she had a strange feeling that things would never be the same after this. And inexplicably, she knew that it had something to do with the Sorting Hat's enigmatic prediction. A prediction that had had no meaning to her for years and that she still couldn't understand …

… _whichever_ _way you go, whatever path you choose, a brilliant future awaits you._

It entailed that she had a choice of paths, and she had never been given a choice of the kind she was sure the Hat had meant. She had chosen to become an Auror because … because that was the career her friends had chosen, and she had followed them. And wasn't like she had been given another realistic possibility. She had never truly had a choice.

Afraid of finding herself shunned and lonely like before Harry and Ron befriended her, Hermione had taken the habit of sacrificing her own ambitions for her friends, almost as if she had no will of her own. When her friends decided on something, she did not express her disagreement unless they were putting themselves in danger; otherwise, she just went along with them. Without realising it, Hermione had become just a _follower_ …


	6. The Rendezvous and the Choice

— CHAPTER SIX —

_**The Rendezvous and the Choice **_

Hermione stepped out into the night, lingering on the doorstep of her house for a few moments. Her wristwatch indicated ten minutes to midnight.

It was a warm night, one of the rare warm autumn nights, and sky was a clear shade of navy. The moon hung in a crescent overhead, its chilly light illuminating the surroundings.

Taking a deep breath, the witch Disapparated, repeating _The Malfoy Gardens _in her head.

WHAM!  
Hermione felt as though she had been slammed into a wall with such force that it sent her flying backwards …

_Crack!_

Opening her eyes, she found herself not in a garden, which had been her Apparition point, but in front of an imposing metal gate surrounded by an intricate fence which, upon closer inspection, revealed to be comprised of various serpent designs.

"Damn it! Anti-Apparition wards … should have known," Hermione was muttering furiously under her breath. Why didn't he warn her? _Apparate to the gardens,_ indeed … he would probably find this amusing …

The Auror examined the gate again. It was a superb work of wrought silver and behind it, she could get a glimpse of a majestic aisle of oak trees, illuminated by a row of lanterns. A coat of arms was carved on the metallic gate: a dagger in the form of the _fleur de lys_, flanked by serpents on both sides so as to form the letter 'M', with a crown above it. It was the same heraldic shield Hermione had seen in miniature on the seal of the letter she had received.

Three words were carved in the metal below, under the crest, forming what Hermione figured should be the Malfoy motto, _Oderint dum metuant__._ The Latin words, with little thought, could be interpreted as 'Let them hate, so long as they fear'. Yes, a fitting credo for a family like the Malfoys, Hermione concluded, judging on what she knew of the family's history.

Hermione looked away from the crest, which for some reason fascinated her, and searched for a way to get past the gate.

The gate had no handle, only a silver knocker shaped like a serpent's head.

Hermione reached out and knocked three times. The sound, which seemed oddly chilling to Hermione's ears, echoed all around her, obviously magically amplified. She waited, forcing herself not to shake in nervousness and apprehension.

The gate opened after a brief delay. The form of a house-elf, clad in a white pillowcase, emerged in the frame of the entrance and bowed to Hermione.

The elf straightened up, its huge eyes examining her from head to toe with a very inquisitive look. "Is you Miss Hermione Granger, Miss?"

Smiling, Hermione bent down to look at the creature. "Yes, that's me. And you are …?"

"I is Coddy, Miss. Miss is asking Coddy's name … Miss is being kind to Coddy," it commented in wonder, bowing again, this time so low that its nose touched the ground.

Hermione was reminded of the strange way Dobby acted around Harry. This family's house-elves were definitely strange …

"Master is awaiting Miss. Coddy is escorting Miss to Master."

The creature stepped aside, finally letting Hermione embark upon the Malfoy grounds. The gate snapped locked with a loud _click_ the second she had stepped past it.

The house-elf started walking and beckoned Hermione to follow. The path edged around flowerbeds and fine gardens, and led to a completely white mansion of which Hermione could see the outline, built on a hill, towering against the starry sky, surrounded by a mass of tall trees. But instead of walking straight towards the residence as Hermione had expected, her guide soon turned into a narrow, uphill lane on their right, bordered by woods.

Between the trees, Hermione noticed that the alley they were in overhung another, wider one, shadowed by more woods.

A little farther, she discerned a set of stairs that led downwards into the lower alley.

The house-elf led Hermione down the staircase promptly left with a _pop_. Hermione turned around to find Lucius waiting for her, his head tilted back proudly, his pale hair gleaming an iridescent colour that rivalled the moon, though it was a little darker, a pale yellow with a silvery sheen.

They were in a small garden, shielded from view by thick curtains of foliage. A few lanterns hung from nothing, as though held in mid-air by magic, and their flickering glow gave an air of mystery to this isolated garden filled with sweet, flowery scents.

Their gazes met for a moment, warm brown clashing against cold grey. Neither spoke for a moment.

Then he broke the silence. "So – you decided to come. How very judicious of you."

He drew his wand and waved it around, not seeing the flash of fear in Hermione's eyes.

"Do sit down." He gestured to the two chairs near a small round table and sat. Hermione perched on the edge of the seat.

The house-elf reappeared, carrying a bottle of champagne and a tray of biscuits, which it deposited on the table before vanishing with a _pop_ again.

"I trust you not to endeavour anything as stupid as attempting to use your wand against me."

Hermione felt insulted. Did he think she was so stupid? After she had taken such a risk to help him escape the clutches of her colleagues in Diagon Alley, why in the world would she …? Then the rest of his statement registered with her, and felt her eyes widen.

"You _trust_ me?" she exclaimed in disbelief. "You trust an Auror?"

"My dear girl, you can be so naïve sometimes. A Death Eater trusts nothing but his own judgement, and if I do not foresee an offensive attempt on your part, it is because I know you too well. From the way you acted in Diagon Alley and the risk you took to intercede for me, I have understood that I've found in you an ally who would never betray me."

She wanted to ask him why he had cast the Cruciatus Curse on her, then – what was she supposed to have done to deserve it? Then she looked into his eyes and decided that it didn't matter. He had simply been behaving like any Death Eater …

"Also, no Auror has attempted to investigate the little house in Knockturn Alley where we … got to _know _each other, so I assume you haven't told your employer about the location."

Hermione reddened, but held his gaze bravely.

"You appear startled. Is it, perhaps, because I know you better than you know yourself?" he suggested with a hint of mockery.

She stayed silent, although she wouldn't be able to tell why she did so. Lucius Malfoy had a way of dominating people, and she was conscious of the influence she had, willingly or not, allowed him to have over her.

"I need to thank you for these actions … especially those in Diagon Alley," he said. "The Dark Lord is never pleased with followers who get apprehended by the Ministry, you know. He questioned me about how I managed to evade capture when the others winded up in Azkaban. Imagine how his curiosity must have been piqued when I told him that an _Auror_ had helped me behind the backs of her colleagues."

He took the bottle of champagne and filled two crystal goblets. Wordlessly, he offered one to her. Hermione looked at it suspiciously, remembering the colourless, odourless poisons she had learnt about during her Auror training. She knew that a wide array of these poisons were stored in a secret chamber in the Malfoy mansion, a chamber Aurors had searched for during several raids but had never managed to find, probably because only a member of the family could access it.

He scoffed at her caution. "Good Lord, surely you realise that I have had the opportunity to annihilate you at least a dozen times already. Do you really think I would use this occasion to poison you?"

"I suppose not, but Aurors are trained to seek plots to kill us everywhere," she explained. "And I've been the target of such plans more than once," she added with a slight shudder.

He raised his goblet and she imitated the gesture. "The Dark Order."

Hermione's eyes narrowed but she didn't say anything. What was the point? What else could she have expected from a Death Eater?

She drank after him, and she had to admit she had never tasted anything so delicious. Her tongue still burned with the taste of alcohol when she found the courage to ask the question that had been plaguing her for weeks, if not years.

"Why did you choose me?"

He looked calculatingly at her, and she had the impression that whatever his answer would be, it would not be fully truthful.

"The first time I saw you closely, I noted a particular – air – about you, one very different from your friends'. It was a quality that I would never have expected to find in a Gryffindor, let alone one of no wizard family. I saw inherent darkness in you, and it intrigued me. Presently that darkness is more evident than ever …"

"If that's the case, how come nobody else has noticed it?"

"Well, you see, only a person deeply immersed in the Dark Arts would be able to recognize the Darkness in others. To perceive it, one has to be very familiar with it oneself, to the point of being surrounded by it every day –"

Now that Hermione thought of it, the concept made sense. Barty Crouch senior, who had been an Auror before he had gone into politics, must have sensed her affinity for the Dark Arts. That must've been why he had been so quick to suspect her of conjuring the Dark Mark at the Quidditch World Cup.

"– but it is also a question of how powerful the wizard is … no doubt the Dark Lord would have no trouble picking you out in a crowd, just by the Darkness emanating from you. He would recognise it instantly, for it is the same that he seeks in his Death Eaters. And speaking of the Dark Lord …" He paused.

Hermione held her breath. She had an idea of what was coming. How could she not? It was what she had expected ever since he had first expressed interest in her. She opened her mouth to say no before he even asked …

"Hermione …" It was the first time she heard him call her by her first name. The sound of it took her breath away, and the 'no' died silently on her lips. "The Dark Lord entreats you to accept a great honour he has bestowed on you, considering that you are not even a pure-blood. He offers you a place by his side."

He slipped a white hand under her chin and tilted her head so that he could stare into her eyes. The Auror looked back into cold grey eyes, just like the first time, at the Quidditch World Cup … only this time, she did not blush as she gazed into the eyes of the man she loved. "Join us, Hermione," he drawled, "Join the Death Eaters."

She shook her head quickly. No. She wasn't ready for this. She wasn't ready to take _that_ decision. She needed to think rationally, to consider all sides of the question before making up her mind, especially on such an important issue. She was afraid that she would make a reckless choice if she were to decide now … in fact, she felt tempted to accept right away, reasoning be damned, just to make him happy. He wanted her to join Voldemort, he was asking her to become a Death Eater, and Hermione was afraid that she would do just that, regardless of the consequences, unless she kept a strict control over herself.

She couldn't allow herself to make a decision only to regret it later, for once she became a Death Eater, there was no way back, and if she declined, she would probably be killed. She had to do a lot of thinking before making such a choice.

To avoid answering, Hermione asked another question. "Why would Volde—" she stopped. Lucius did not flinch at the name; in fact, he was the only Death Eater she had met who didn't flinch, gasp, wince or hiss at hearing his Master's name spoken aloud, but she still judged it inappropriate to pronounce it in his presence. "Why would the_Dark Lord_ want a Mudblood among his followers?" she asked.

She noticed distantly that she had actually pronounced the word so shunned by many that some even went as far as to say a 'you-know-what' instead. Really, it reminded her of the fuss people made about speaking Voldemort's name. It was just a word, honestly! She was also conscious of the fact that she had called Voldemort 'the Dark Lord' for the first time. All that in a single sentence … what was happening to her?

"The Dark Lord has been expressing interest in you ever since I mentioned your particular qualities to him. He wishes to meet you to see them for himself. If the encounter happens as he expects, he is willing to make an exception for you, to overlook your blood.

"Yes, Hermione," he insisted, noticing her astounded, and somewhat doubtful, expression, "the Dark Lord _does_ allow Muggle-borns to join him … under special circumstances. That case applies to you – as one of the most powerful Aurors of our time, you would be an immense asset to our cause."

"I'm touched by the distinction," Hermione spoke slowly, choosing her words carefully. "That one of such power considers me worthy … for that alone, I can't bring myself to refuse right away. However … I'd appreciate a time of reflection before making a decision of such magnitude."

"Very good, very good, you may take your time … the Dark Lord expects your decision by the end of the coming week. You need to owl me with your answer."

"Mr Malfoy –"

"You may call me Lucius."

"Very well, Lucius. I think it's … less than safe for us to correspond that way. My … friends wouldn't be pleased if they were to accidentally fall upon a letter signed by you at my place," Hermione said, not noticing that she had started referring to Harry and Ron with nothing less than disgust just because she thought it would please him.

"In that case, I would suggest avoiding signing our letters in a way that could allow others to identify the correspondent. I suggest we sign with our middle names."

"That's a good idea," Hermione said slowly.

"Altair," he said shortly. "Well, Hermione? Tell me your middle name. I wish to know who I will receive an owl from before the end of the week."

"It's – at Hogwarts, I told everyone that it's Jane, but –" She looked down at the table, blushing.

"You lied?" he guessed.

"Yes. I didn't want people to laugh at me … they had enough reason to do that already, and I didn't want them to laugh at my weird names as well. I mean, _Hermione_ sounds weird enough, doesn't it? My middle name, it's – it's _Antares_, all right? I know that it's not very – um – feminine, but my parents had an obsession with strange names – it's not my fault," she said defensively, expecting him to laugh. Girls at primary school always had when they saw the tag on her schoolbag, where her parents had insisted that she write her full name.

"Hermione," he said firmly, interrupting her embarrassed explanation, "in the wizarding world, a name such as yours – either of them – is entirely acceptable. In fact, to be named after a celestial body is a mark of distinction among wizards." He leaned over the table towards her. "My great-great-great-grandmother was named Antares. She led an illustrious career and was greatly respected in her time. What I do find astonishing indeed is the idea that Muggles would name their daughter after a star … it is a tradition in some ancient families of our kind – the Blacks, for example, are notorious for it – but amid the common folk …"

He looked at her questioningly.

"Well, my parents had a knack for some unusual things … including names, unfortunately," she said hesitantly, "you know, a bit like Arthur Weasley's obsession with Muggle technology …"

"I see …"

He sneered at the mention of Mr Weasley, and Hermione wondered when the feud between the Malfoys and the Weasleys had started. What could possibly have caused such enmity? Not that she didn't sincerely consider Mr Weasley's fascination with everything Muggle utterly _ridiculous_ … in Molly's place, she would have been ashamed. But Hermione had never admitted her secret irritation. She smiled indulgently every time Mr Weasley asked her about the way some Muggle appliance worked …

She decided to change the subject. "Just how large _is_ the Malfoy estate?" Such curiosity was probably inappropriate, but she couldn't think of anything else to say. And he probably would enjoy talking about it …

"Well, the grounds surrounding the manor amount to 22 acres; that is, approximately one fourth of the surface of Wiltshire County," he answered.

Hermione listened with interest. In the wizarding world, a single family's land never extended farther than to one village or a town at the most. That is, the wealthiest, most prominent families – and those were rare. Apparently, the Malfoys were even higher-ranking than that, with such huge properties. The average magical household owned no more than a house with a small back yard, just like in the Muggle world. That was the case of the Weasleys, for example – the garden around The Burrow wasn't small, only badly cared for.

Keeping in mind that the acre was a unit of area equal to 4,000 square metres or 0.40 hectares … she did the conversion in her head and couldn't help feeling impressed. A domain of eight hectares was one _huge_ chunk of land.

"We have an area of woodland around the house, enclosing a river and two small lakes, one of which is directly behind the manor." Lucius continued, obviously seizing the occasion to brag about his wealth. Hermione did not mind; she found herself genuinely interested. "Beyond the woods lies an expanse of semi-wilderness. Naturally, the whole surface is Unplottable and concealed from Muggles."

Hermione suddenly remembered a passage she had read years ago, in a book she had found lying around in Grimmauld Place. _Nature's Nobility: A Wizarding Genealogy_ devoted several chapters to the Malfoy family, most of which were filled with complicated charts composing a family tree, but she remembered a particular page on the family's history:

_The House of Malfoy is unquestionably the most prominent pure-blood family in wizarding Britain, with their genealogical tapestry dating back twelve centuries. There is no family that holds to English traditions more fervently than they do, which is rather surprising, given their ancestors were of French descent. _

_The Malfoy family has always been renowned for their use of Dark magic. They have always relied on the Dark Arts to deal with hardships as much as with everyday life. Their faith in the power of the Darker sorts of magic has never wavered, enough to earn them a surname referring to it. As a matter of fact, the name _Malfoy_ literally means _'Dark faith'_ in French._

_The Malfoys have been the most prosperous wizarding family of France. They were forced to emigrate from their fatherland during the times of violent persecution our kind suffered at the hand of Muggles, the situation in France being the most critical in all of Europe. It is said that they were exiled from the French wizarding community during the XVI__th__ century because of their refusal to stay concealed from the common folk. Indeed, the patriarch of the family at the time claimed he would never accept to hide from those inferior to him, because it went against his family creed._

_Antoine Malfoy and his wife chose to establish themselves in Wiltshire, purchasing a large plot of land in the northeast of the county thanks to the extensive amounts of gold they had brought with them. They quickly adjusted to their new homeland and adopted the English language and traditions, which their descendants still respect with a rigour that is rarely found even among the native, although they have kept the custom of having their heirs learn French._

_According to old custom, the head of the Malfoy family inherits the title of _Lord of Sarum_ that had been given to Antoine Malfoy upon his acquisition of an area amounting to a significant part of the surface of the region, thus placing the Malfoy family among the highest-ranking landowners in magical Europe. __In the magical British Isles, this is the highest hereditary title of the nobility, and s__uch a title always accompanies the possession of an area of land of the dimensions of a village or larger._

_The residence, commonly known as the Malfoy Manor, is also referred to as the Salisbury Hall. To this day, the Malfoys retain their status of the wealthiest family in wizarding Britain …_

Hermione suddenly felt very flattered to be a guest here, at the home of one of the most illustrious wizarding families in Britain and probably in all of Western Europe.

"This is the main courtyard of the manor," her host explained. "The lake is on the other side, but it is not – prudent – for you to venture there, not when some prying eyes could catch a glimpse of you, if they just happen to look through a window."

"Prying eyes?" Hermione repeated. "And who would that be?"

"Narcissa tends to stay up late … so do my son and Pansy – my, ah, _daughter-in-law_. They need not work, you understand, with our fortune, so they simply stay at the manor all day, slothful as they are. I had hoped that my son would amount to something respectable, but he has inherited too many of his mother's shortcomings to be fit for anything more."

Hermione agreed with that. Draco Malfoy, as she remembered him from Hogwarts – and she supposed he hadn't changed much – had always been lazy, brash and careless, not to mention his highly inconvenient habit of talking too much. She had heard from Harry and Ron that Draco had carelessly told his dim-witted friends (or at least whom he _thought_ were Crabbe and Goyle) that there was a room full of Dark Artefacts concealed under the drawing room of the manor. Hermione had no doubt Ron had owled his father with the information as soon as he could – not that it had proved of any use to Arthur Weasley. Many Aurors had searched the mansion, back when the Malfoy family still had the reputation of being respectable wizards, and they had never found anything. Of course, Hermione was sure the secret room was hidden well enough that no Ministry official would ever find it.

"If I may ask …" she started, the Auror side of her mind taking over, "where in Wiltshire are we?"

"In the environs of the Salisbury Plain … the commoners call this area 'Old Sarum', although the surface is much larger than what the Muggles see. It is not possible to define the exact location, as the manor and the grounds are Unplottable. The Muggles believe this area is uninhabited – there has been no Muggle living here since the 1200s, and there are charms on the area that make it appear deserted to those without magic …"

Hermione made a squeaking noise. She had had no idea there were wizards in the area. She had learned in Muggle history that there was nothing but ruins left of the old settlement, and the Muggles used the surrounding area to train their army …

"When my ancestors moved here, they drove the Muggles out of the region and applied charms that make it appear like ruins to Muggle eyes. And as no wizard can find the Malfoy residence unless the head of the family – that is, I – gives the invitation to them … that is the reason why the Ministry fails to gain access to the manor no matter how hard they try, even though nearly a decade ago, they _did_ visit me to search the house for Dark Artefacts, but only because I agreed to it – else they would never have found it."

"So not only the domain is Unplottable, but it's also magically Untraceable?" she said, amazed. "To make an area of eight hectares Untraceable … it requires a huge amount of magic! Not even Hogwarts is Untraceable, and I'm sure Dumbledore would've made it so if he could …"

"My ancestors were powerful wizards, Hermione, very powerful wizards," he drawled, his eyes flashing at the mention of Dumbledore, "though one of my forefathers – my namesake, Altair Malfoy – surpassed them all. He brought the name Malfoy to the height of power … but he realised that with such power, our home was in need of protection from – ah – those who were less than pleased with our standing."

Lucius paused, his eyes fixed on the outline of the mansion glittering against the black sky, framed by trees. There was something akin to wistfulness in his expression.

"Altair was the one who made the manor Untraceable, not that it stopped what he had foreseen all along …"

Hermione detected bitterness in his voice and it puzzled her. Aurors were trained in interrogation techniques, and Hermione had taken a class called Advanced Magical Communication at the academy, where she had learnt to detect and interpret subtle hints of emotion in speech in order to determine the truthfulness of the speaker. With the skills she had acquired during her training, she could easily tell that there was more to the issue.

But the bitterness was masked by a terrible spite, and his grey eyes gleamed with a suppressed hatred. Even though Hermione was sure there was more to the story, she wasn't going to ask – the rage, barely hidden, was visible to her, and she did not want to risk provoking him with questions on a subject that was, by all signs, highly unpleasant. Hermione only wondered who it was that he hated so and what they could have done to earn such spite.

"Would you like a tour of the area?" Lucius drawled, hasty to get away from what Hermione guessed to be bad memories. "I have a garden of roses you might enjoy seeing."

"I would like that very much," she replied, hesitating for a second before adding, "my Lord."

She hoped he wouldn't take offence to her calling him by a title no one used anymore. She knew that he blamed the influx of Muggle-borns into their world for that. In reality, a reformist half-blooded politician of the nineteenth century had thought it in his interests to abolish the wizarding nobility's privileges. Before, Lucius's standing would have warranted him a seat on the Wizengamot and immunity against prosecution if he broke wizarding law. The Ministry had used the increasing number of Muggle-borns as an excuse to get rid of a social system that they considered outdated, but it made no sense to anyone who knew that even the Muggles still respected their aristocracy, at least in Britain.

Lucius did not show the pleasant surprise that he felt. He had not expected a witch of Muggle descent to know the old traditions. The majority of the magical population (even the pure-blooded families) were unaware of these customs, which angered him greatly. And here was a Mudblood who was not only well-informed on the subject, but who also paid him the respect nobody bothered to anymore. It only reinforced his conviction that this woman, Mudblood or not, was very different from the others he had met.

When they entered a lane full of rosebushes of the rarest kinds, Hermione was speechless. They were her favourite plants and she had even planted some around her house, but she had never seen any so beautiful, not even in Muggle botanical gardens. She knew that this garden had to be maintained by house-elves, and they had done their job skilfully, she thought as she took in the blossoming stems that were coiled around the closest pillar. Their flowers were of a satiny yellow tinted with pink on the central petals. Hermione bent down, inhaling the fragrance that reminded her of the French perfume she had smelt on her mother once when they had been leaving for a trip to the theatre.

"Well? What do you think?"

"It's … it's magnificent."

"I knew you would like it, my dear." He used his wand to clip off one of the flowers and offered it to Hermione.

"Would you allow me offer this to you as a present?" he drawled.

She thanked him, dropping her gaze. With shaking fingers, she drew out her wand and cast a charm to stick the flower to the front of her robes.

He observed her attentively. Hermione's eyes, the pure, dark eyes that had captivated him so many years ago, looked deeper when reflecting the stars shining above his home. She was extremely pretty, so unlike Narcissa's blonde resplendence, darker yet just as alluring with her youthful energy, her enigmatic soul shining through.

"Now why don't you come here?" It sounded like a request, but Hermione knew it was a command. Voldemort's right-hand man did not _ask_ people to do things.

She took a step closer.

Lucius wrapped his arms around her shoulders and kissed her. She closed her eyes and relaxed in his embrace, gently responding to his kiss but generally just giving in to his passion. She knew that she would never be his equal, and she wasn't sure she wanted to be. He would always dominate her … she wanted to keep it that way. It just felt right.

From all the times she had been kissed in the past by Viktor Krum and her subsequent boyfriends, not one kiss had been so exciting, so intense. In fact, no man had ever given her the pleasure she knew with Lucius.

When she was completely out of breath, he pulled his face away from hers but did not release her. He stroked her cheek, staring into her eyes as though he was trying to find her soul so that he could take charge of it like he had done with her body and her mind. His grey eyes looked deep and dark with desire and she simply couldn't look away …

Hermione kept looking into his eyes and shuddered at what she saw in them. A pitiless desire to take, to control … it frightened her, but she was also curious, and secretly thrilled to be the object of such a strong passion. How could it not flatter her that he found her – a plain Muggle-born – so irresistible? On some subconscious level, she wanted accommodate his incomprehensible hunger to know all that she was.

At least there was none of the usual indifference in his expression. She realised with a surge of happiness that she had woken a need for affection in him, a need that his cold and prim wife could never satisfy.

"You never answered my question," she said suddenly, regaining some sense. "Why are you doing this with _me_? I'm sure it's not just because – as you said – I have a potential for the Dark Arts!"

"I touch you simply because I want to," he drawled. "And to give you a reason to join our Lord," he added frankly.

She felt a prickle of indignation. _Our_ Lord?

"You are a genuinely pretty witch," he continued before she could remind him that she was an Auror and firmly on the Light side. At those words, she forgot her anger entirely. "You have no idea, I am sure, of the power your eyes hold … what is it that gives them such fire? Is it the darkness you harbour inside?"

Nothing could have prepared her for a confession of this sort from him or for the incomprehensible emotion it brought out in her. She hugged him tightly to show her gratitude. It had been such a long time since anyone had complimented her looks … Viktor had been the last to do that, and how quickly he had forgotten her, once she had told him that she felt nothing but friendship towards him …

Her best friends didn't appreciate her looks, or maybe they didn't even realise that she was a grown-up woman now… they probably still saw her as the girl with tangled hair and large teeth whom they had met on the Hogwarts Express and who pulled them out of trouble every time they did something stupid, not noticing that she was no longer bucktoothed, and definitely no longer a _girl_ …

Lucius buried a hand in her hair, enjoying the sensation of the soft ringlets between his fingers. He felt her eyelashes flutter and close as he kissed her again. Letting go of her head, he curled his hands impatiently around her sides as he held her close to his body. He had been looking forward to this for weeks. His wife's frigid eyes and the distant composure that she retained even under his touch were very off-putting. And there was nothing that turned him off as instantly as when Narcissa tried to take charge, taking away what was the basis of all pleasure to him: to have power over others.

It was the reason he had joined the Death Eaters and also the reason why he found it so addictive to touch Hermione. But there were other things that drew him to Hermione … her fiery spirit and her artless, uncorrupted _purity_ had always stirred up a wild covetousness in him. It wasn't just desire – he could control his desires – but a need, a thirst to conquer everything about her and to keep it for himself. He wanted to become one with her if only for a moment, to unite with her by taking complete control over her, to know what it felt like to be her …

After Narcissa, he found Hermione's unguarded reactions pleasingly different. And he did not need to treat her as an equal; she had been far from complaining the last time, as he recalled …

"I hope I need not threaten you with strangulation this time … do I?" he whispered.

Hermione looked up, meeting the fire in his eyes. She smiled faintly, remembering how scared she had been that night. "No, you don't need to."

-

Shifting in her lover's arms, Hermione closed her robes to shield herself from the fresh night air. He had covered the ground under her with his cloak. They were surrounded by grass and dry leaves, and the moon, silent spectator to their duplicity, shed its dim light on them from above. When he moved off her, she placed her hand on his arm and held him back, staring at him with curiosity.

She moved her hand up slowly, hesitantly, to touch his sleek hair. He did not push her away, although she was sure that he wasn't used to gestures of affection being initiated by a woman.

He sat up on the ground next to her. "Look up, Hermione," he murmured, lifting her chin in the palm of his hand.

She looked at the sky. The moon shone above them, surrounded by stars that looked much brighter than those she was used to seeing over London. There were so many of them here …

"Draco," said Lucius, "the constellation."

She looked more carefully at the stars that were like a long ribbon spread across the sky. She recalled her Astronomy lessons at Hogwarts, the observations made at night using magical telescopes, Professor Sinistra's crisp voice giving names to the patterns they were seeing … putting her imagination to work, Hermione saw that the stars above the mansion looked like a snake reared up to strike, with the two brightest as its head – its eyes? – and a long, glittery tail …

"We see him all year here, as Narcissa likes to point out," Lucius commented softly. "It was a tradition in her family to watch the stars, and since moving in at the manor after our marriage, she spent more hours on the balcony observing the sky than in her bedroom – or mine. She noticed that Draco was always there during these nights, shining above her, and she chose to name our son after him."

Hermione's eyes glittered, full of interest, as they reflected the stars. "That's a fascinating story," she breathed. "I never knew …"

He shifted her so that her back was pressed to his chest, and started stroking her hair. Soothed, Hermione leaned her head against his shoulder and kept gazing at the many stars above the house. She tried to find other patterns that she would recognise from her Astronomy classes. Before she realised it, her eyes were closing …

When Lucius looked at her again, she was fast asleep, her breasts heaving slightly under the robes that covered them. Her soft dark hair, damp with sweat, clung to her forehead in rebellious curls.

He stared at the sleeping young woman. He remembered the first time he had met – or rather, noticed – her when she had been but a girl soon to start her fourth year at Hogwarts, a girl who had stared at him rebelliously. Her expression had lacked the hatred he had seen in the eyes of Potter and the eight Weasleys. He had known then that she would haunt him for a long time.

And haunt him she had. He supposed that was when it had begun. Her brown eyes had troubled his dreams ever since that day. Sometimes those eyes glowed with a golden light in his dreams; on other nights he would see them deep and velvety and no less enchanting …

He had waited for years and whether she wanted it or not, he wasn't going to let her leave now. To hell with Narcissa – he would let her think what she wanted; there had never been any sentiments between them anyway. Their marriage was one of convenience, a dynastical alliance between two influential wizarding families, like in the old days.

He would have wished Hermione was a pure-blood, but even if she wasn't, it was not going to stop him. As for what the Dark Lord would say … well, if the Dark Lord himself was willing to accept her, a Mudblood, into the Dark Order, Lucius could overlook her blood as well, couldn't he?

He strongly believed in Slytherin's ideas about pure-blood supremacy, but he did admit that there were exceptions to the rule. He had always known that the Dark Lord was a half-blood yet he still served him, because in his eyes, the power Tom Marvolo Riddle possessed and his direct blood connection to the great Salazar Slytherin compensated for the Muggle taint in his blood. Hermione was yet another exception. In her case, it was her uncommon intelligence that counterweighted her lack of a proper wizard surname.

His arms tightened around the bushy-haired Auror. _An Auror…_ who would have thought? Who would have expected that she would be so easy to convince? Aurors did not side with Dark wizards. It was simply unheard of. But this woman seemed to be the exception to every rule …

From a window high up in the manor, a pair of blue eyes watched. There was a look of disbelief in those eyes, as if the person they belonged to believed herself the victim of a hallucination.

-

In a spacious room on the second floor of the manor, a blonde woman sat in a high-backed chair facing the window, a leather-bound book on her lap. She looked very slim in her robes of indigo-blue silk.

Diamond-encrusted clips held her long blond hair in a knot behind her head, and her bare arms were adorned with narrow gold bracelets incrusted with sapphires. The gems sparkled at her every movement, while others, forming a thick necklace around her neck, set off lingering flashes of blue.

Although every feature of her face was of a symmetric, aristocratic beauty, there was so much hardness in the set of her mouth and her rounded chin that it undermined her attractiveness quite gravely. Still, she had an imposing kind of beauty.

The walls around her were a pale lavender colour and the furniture in the room was made of a pale, exotic rosewood that must have cost immense amounts of gold. In fact, everything in the room looked expensive. The huge wardrobe in the corner was full of satin, velvet and other fine fabrics in all imaginable shades and the vanity next to it was cluttered with bottles of extravagant French perfume and cosmetics.

The tall woman could not believe what she was seeing. Lucius with another woman? This was impossible. Her husband would _never_ cheat on her …

Her eyebrows furrowed as she squinted to see better in the distance, but she could not distinguish the other woman's face in the dark. All she discerned was a mass of dark hair. Her confusion quickly turned to fury as she jumped up from her chair and moved closer to the window, jerking the violet curtains aside. Her book fell to the floor but she did not notice or if she did, she paid it no heed as she continued to stare, transfixed, her cheek pressed against the cool glass, at the scene in the distance.

How could Lucius do this to her? She was his _wife_, for Merlin's sake! _How dare he?_

Her pale face flushed suddenly in rage. This was one of the rare occasions when the aloof, disdainful Narcissa Malfoy lost her rigid composure, not that anyone was here to witness it. _I am going to kill that wench, whoever she is …_

She sat back into her chair, a sudden weakness falling over her. Her mind had not yet recovered from the shock, but a dozen ideas were already swirling around in her head. She feverishly vowed to find out who the woman was, dazedly contemplating possible courses of action, trying but failing to form a coherent plan.

**-**

Lucius accompanied Hermione back to the gate. The mansion was visible behind them, illumined from above by the moon and the stars.

Hermione turned back to take one last look at the imposing building. She was once again astonished by its nocturnal beauty. It almost glowed, with its dimly lit windows and pale stone walls. She wished she could see what it looked like on the inside, but that was too risky. Perhaps one day … but not while Mrs Malfoy was there. Merlin knew what the woman would do if she found out … And suddenly, Hermione felt a rising hatred for the lady of the manor. She _loathed_ that woman …

Lucius reminded her of Voldemort's offer, drawing her away from her dark thoughts.

"Think about it, Hermione. I have seen the turmoil you Aurors live in. It is a lifestyle that does not suit you."

What went unsaid was that the turmoil was caused by those like him. "So you expect me to kill my kind?" she exclaimed before she could stop herself. "That's treason, that's … that's despicable!"

"Ah, but my dear Hermione, would you prefer to die with the rest of them?" he asked softly. "You are not that much of a Gryffindor. You want to live your own life. You have let your friends influence you yet you resent being in their shadow. Convince me that I am mistaken, Hermione."

She looked away, defeated. He was right, too right: it was as though he was reading the darkest part of her mind. "Fine … I'll consider it, I promise."

"Good. I'll expect your owl shortly." The look in his eyes told her that refusal wasn't an option.

She looked down, feeling a prickling sensation in the corners of her eyes. "Goodbye," she said unsteadily, staring at the ground. She couldn't bring herself to ask whether she would see him again …

As though he knew what she was thinking, he eased her worry with his next words.

"Until next time, Hermione."

She smiled gratefully, almost shyly at him, and he saw that her eyes were twinkling with tears.

Then the gate snapped locked between them.

-

Hermione Apparated a few streets away from The Wildrose Den. She stepped under a streetlamp and examined herself carefully in a small pocket mirror. Were there any remains of grass or dead leaves in her hair? Lucius had assured her there weren't any, after removing everything that could have hitched in her brown mane. But she felt so guilty, when she approached her house after spending these moments with him, that she was sure her shame must have been visible on her face.

Hermione felt a surge of anger. Why did this damned thing called conscience have to torment her so? Why couldn't she just make it shut up?

Sure that she had regained her usual appearance, she walked the rest of the way to her house determinedly, forcing all thoughts of 'wrong' and 'traitor' out of her mind.


	7. Of Friends and Enemies

— CHAPTER SEVEN —

_**Of Friends and Enemies**_

She stood in front of the fireplace in her kitchen. She didn't really like travelling by Floo, but she could not Apparate to Hogwarts, and Floo was definitely better than taking the Knight Bus or flying by broom (something she had never been good at).

She needed to consult a few rare books for her latest article in the _Defence Chronicles_, a magazine focusing on Defence Against the Dark Arts where she wrote a monthly column, '_From the Auror's Desk_'. Unfortunately, the only place where she could find these books was Britain's largest magical library: the Hogwarts library. Even there, it would take her hours to even _find_ them among the thousands of books. _And I'll no doubt get distracted by other fascinating books on the way_ …

She suddenly remembered the Room of Requirement. Back when Harry had held DA meetings, there had always been a shelf of good spellbooks in the room … this was much more practical than to sift through the rows and rows of the library. It was time to pay her old school a visit.

She tossed in a pinch of Floo powder. "_Hogwarts – Entrance Hall!_"

**-**

On this early Saturday morning, Hermione reached the castle's seventh floor without meeting anyone but a few students in the corridors. The children stared at her curiously, and she wondered whether they had recognised her Auror uniform and were thinking she was planning to catch a Dark wizard among them. But according to the law, Aurors had free access to every place, house, dwelling, castle and room in the wizarding world, and she definitely did not need to ask for permission to visit Hogwarts.

She reached for the brass handle of the door that had suddenly appeared in the wall. She pulled it open and walked in. She saw a large writing desk covered with a supply of parchment, quills and ink, and comfortable-looking chairs in the corners. Most importantly, the four walls were lined with bookcases. Even after all the times Hermione had used this room to study, it never ceased to amaze her.

She examined the nearest bookcase, and some of the titles she saw surprised her, because they had no relevance to her research on countering ancient and particularly nasty Dark Curses. She was quite sure that _Political Assassination in the Wizarding World_ and _Surviving as a Spy_ had nothing to do there at all. Nor did _One Hundred Ways to Eliminate Your Rival_, when she thought about it. But as tempted as she was to read them, Hermione had to keep her mind on the task at hand. It wouldn't do to get distracted now, not when she had to send in the completed article by Monday morning. And she couldn't take any books home with her either, because that would be like stealing, and Hermione Granger did not steal. No matter, she could always come back another day; Dumbledore had made it clear in her seventh year that former students were always welcome at Hogwarts.

She slid a couple of tomes from the shelf and sat down to read them. She became so absorbed in the complex theory of the various kinds of Dark magic that she forgot where she was. It had been weeks since she had last had the time to read a book. Work always made her so tired … she often couldn't even sleep at night, having to chase after Dark wizards when it was too dark to see, because that was when they went out like cats to fight. The night was their preferred hour …

Despite her attempt to concentrate on her research, Hermione's mind wandered to the choice that she would have to make soon. She didn't know what she was going to do. She didn't know what she wanted to do either. What was it that she wanted most in her life? She wasn't even sure about what her greatest ambition was. When she had been a Hogwarts student, it had been to be the top student in her year and to become Head Girl. Once she had achieved these things, her goal had been to do something _worthwhile_ with her life and to do it well.

During her career consultation with Professor McGonagall, in her fifth year, she considered a career with the Ministry of Magic, preferably in the Department for the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures, so that she could fight for house-elf rights. When she had told Harry and Ron that she planned to take SPEW further, she had meant it.

But as time passed, she had realised that it wasn't a cause important enough to devote her life to it, not when compared to the other issues in wizarding society. It wasn't fair if her friends were out there risking their lives to fight Voldemort while she sat in a dusty office at the Ministry, lobbying for the freedom of magical creatures. There were more important things to do … like fighting for _people's lives_. She had had the necessary grades; her path had been open … so she had chosen a job both prestigious and valiant. She had become an Auror, and despite occasional moments of doubt, she hadn't regretted it.

But then, suddenly, she had seen another possibility for her future. It was one so unexpected that it had left her light-headed and more anxious than excited. She still couldn't believe that she was considering it at all.

The relatively safe existence that the Dark side offered her, the success Lucius had predicted, the adventures she would share with him and the others … all that was a temptation that left her far from indifferent. What interested her even more was the chance to attain knowledge without restriction, to learn the most mysterious of magic, the Dark Arts, and to practice spells forbidden and forgotten … her heart raced whenever she thought of all the exciting possibilities. But she could live without them, couldn't she?

_Knowledge is power_, her mother used to say, and the young Hermione had taken that little sentence to heart. It had become her personal creed, the rule she had lived by at Muggle primary school. When she had discovered the world of magic, she had seen the truth of those words more clearly than ever. To know more spells meant a better chance to win in a duel, which in today's context equalled a better chance of surviving the war.

She sought knowledge; thus, she sought power. But there were different kinds of knowledge, just like there were different kinds of power. She already had a lot of power: she had an influential and relatively well-paid job that provided a lot of privileges in society. She was one of the most respected Aurors in the community.

But recently, Hermione had realised that she wasn't satisfied with her career. She no longer felt the pride she had once felt when saving someone's life or capturing a Dark wizard, back when she had been new to the Auror Office. These days, she did her duty with a sense of emptiness. And when people sent her long letters of gratitude for saving the lives of their families, Hermione read them with impatience. For each wizard she managed to save, there were ten Muggles that the Death Eaters killed every day, and she couldn't be everywhere, always arrive on time and save everyone …

_What you have isn't enough for you. You have always aspired higher, haven't you?_ suggested a voice in her head. And Hermione agreed with her entire mind. She had entertained dreams of becoming the Minister for Magic one day, and being an Auror sometimes wasn't enough to satisfy her competitive nature. But people did not become leaders of a country in their twenties, and Hermione had realised that she had to settle for less, but that didn't mean she had to be happy with the situation.

_But if it isn't enough, what would be? What would it take to make me happy? _she wondered. If everything was possible, if there were no laws to hold her back, what would she become? What would she want to be? What was her deepest desire?

Hermione sighed and forced herself to stop daydreaming about questions that she couldn't answer. She found it ironic that people had called her a know-it-all when she couldn't even answer such simple questions about where she wanted to go in her life.

But she had to make a decision by the end of the week, and she _needed_ to know …

No sooner she had thought the last sentence that she noticed something propped up against a wall between two bookcases, something that looked out of place in this research room. It was an antique mirror. Framed in gold, it almost reached the ceiling, and there was an inscription carved in gold above it: _Erised stra ehru oyt ube cafru oyt on wohsi._

Hermione took in a sharp breath. _Erised_. The Mirror of Erised. This was _exactly_ what she needed right now. She mentally thanked whoever it was who had created the Room of Requirement.

Her heart started beating wildly and her knees suddenly felt like they couldn't hold her weight. She hadn't been _really_ considering getting the answers to her questions … she closed her eyes. She feared looking into the glass; she feared what she would see. She feared that it wouldn't be something good …

Taking a deep breath, she forced her legs to move. Slowly, she took the three steps that separated her from the object that would decide her life and probably change the world in the process.

"I want to know," she whispered shakily and opened her eyes. They were thin brown slits at first, but widened as she stared at the image before her.

At first, she saw nothing, no reflection. The surface of the mirror was black. There was nothing but darkness, a limpid darkness like the night sky, only with no stars. The darkness was so deep it was almost tangible, and Hermione had the urge to reach out a hand to touch it, because it exuded an almost magnetic attraction. But she hadn't been a candidate for reasonable Ravenclaw for nothing. She reminded herself that it was just a mirror.

_But what is it?_ she wondered. What did the darkness represent?

_The darkness of your soul_, came the unbidden answer.

The curtain-like darkness cleared to show a familiar manor house with ivory walls that set off a glow the same colour as moonlight, each of its windows lit by a dim light. There was a crowd of masked people dressed in black on the ground around the manor. They were all looking up at the balcony on the top floor, where Hermione could see two people standing close together, silhouetted against the dark, starry sky.

Suddenly it was like watching a Muggle movie in slow motion. The crowd on the ground disappeared from sight; the view seemed to zoom in and the balcony appeared in more detail. The couple – she saw now that it was a man and a woman – looked like a King and Queen addressing their people, or their army, judging by the uniform she had seen on the audience gathered in front of the house.

And as the picture became clearer, Hermione stared, wide-eyed and avid. For in the elegant woman whose brown hair was rolled up neatly on her head, with a few tendrils falling out so as to frame her face, Hermione had recognised herself. She had also recognised the man standing next to her, a tall man with a pale, pointed face and sleek blond hair.

She was dressed exquisitely in dark velvet; there was a golden, jewel-incrusted tiara on her head and a glittering necklace around her neck. Her stance was so graceful somehow, but also confident, her chin raised in an almost smug way. Her eyes looked deep and dark, full of knowledge beyond access to the average witch. She could see a dark red sign that she guessed was the Dark Mark on the inside of her left forearm.

Her hand rested in the crook of the arm of the man next to her. Lucius Malfoy looked as haughty as ever, but the power, the command in his eyes …

Hermione trembled. She felt so insignificant compared to this wizard and to the woman next to him … an air of dark, sinister power seemed to radiate from the pair of them. They looked as though they owned the world, their very presence daring people not to notice or not to fear them.

Hermione stared at her image, her mirror image … what she wanted to be. She lost track of time as she stood staring into the glass, trying to memorise the picture she was seeing.

So she didn't want to be liked; she wanted to be feared.

The more she thought about it, the more it made sense. As a Muggle girl, Hermione used to have a fascination with royalty. She had often fantasised being the Queen of Great Britain, and the dreams of her youth were filled with adventures of conquest and politics. She had dreamt about having the power to order people killed at her whim – not that the Queen did such things, of course not, but she _could_ if she really wanted to, couldn't she? Hermione had dreamt about having a nation obey her, and now, her childhood fantasies had taken a new dimension.

She didn't know how long she stood there before she found the will to tear her eyes away from her reflection's face and step away from the mirror. "That was enlightening," she mumbled.

But there was no way she could achieve it. Hermione was flooded with even more guilt. In her deepest desire, she had the Dark Mark on her arm ... how could she? How could she want to betray them all? Was she really so ungrateful, so cowardly? In any case, she knew she had never been brave and noble like Harry, but she had always strived to be. And she thought she had achieved that bravery, after all the adventures she had taken part in, with Harry during their years at Hogwarts and later as an Auror. But she had been wrong.

How could she have considered betraying her friends like that? Her friends had stood up for her at Hogwarts and saved her life more than once … And why? Because she was afraid? But she was supposed to be brave; she had been a Gryffindor …

A Gryffindor who actually belonged in Slytherin. But no one knew, did they? _Me, a secret Slytherin_ … she definitely didn't deserve such wonderful, caring friends like Harry and Ron.

It was true, one had to admit, life was difficult in these dark times, particularly for those actively involved in the fight against Voldemort. And she was doubly involved, as an Auror and a member of the Order of the Phoenix.

The _Daily Prophet_ was full of reports of murders and disappearances. The streets of wizarding London were no longer noisy and filled with careless, relaxed people like before. She saw the change every time she went to Diagon Alley. People talked in low voices, jumping at every unexpected noise, looking around fearfully as though expecting Death Eaters to suddenly appear among them.

Ministry officials did their best both to clean up after the Death Eaters who didn't bother concealing magic from the Muggles and to prevent the attacks. Hermione's co-workers led very stressful lives. Many had to stay at work for the night, spending the whole night at the Ministry or outside chasing Dark wizards. The latter was often the case for Aurors, who preferred to track Death Eaters after sunset because that was when most of the attacks occurred.

The Imperius Curse was the source of additional trouble at the Ministry. The Aurors had been asked to watch out for the signs of the Imperius Curse on their co-workers, and they had to investigate suspicious behaviour. The worst was that there was no way to verify whether a person was really under the Imperius. True, to date, only some of the lower-ranking Ministry personnel had been affected, but there was no guarantee that someone higher up the ladder couldn't fall prey to it. Few of the Aurors had the power to resist the Imperius Curse – not even Mad-Eye Moody, who had been one of the best Aurors of the century.

As for the Muggle world, mysterious crimes and catastrophes occurred almost daily. The Muggle-Worthy Excuse Committee was working overtime to invent a myriad of reasons and explanations, and she had to admit that they did their job well. But like any Muggle-born witch, Hermione knew better than to believe the version of events diffused by the Muggle media. Serial killers, earthquakes, gas explosions, fires resulting in dozens of casualties … no, that was all Voldemort's work.

Trelawney's second prediction had come true. The Dark Lord had risen again, _greater and more terrible than ever before_.

But to Hermione, there was another problem, although less critical, less alarming since it had always been there. On the Light Side, she had to be content with leading a normal life like everyone else. But that wasn't the life Hermione had always wanted. It didn't satisfy her yearning to be _better_ than everyone else, her ambition to know more, to be the best … It was why she had thriven at Hogwarts and at the Auror Academy; education had given her a chance to surpass others, to prove herself better in an acceptable setting. But the day she had graduated, she no longer had that chance.

And a desire to be better than others was unacceptable in the world of the Light. It shocked her, even today, how intolerant they were. Those who proclaimed themselves the good side shunned those among them who were different, those who, like her, were ambitious. Ambition was unacceptable in the Gryffindor world, as Hermione had found out long ago.

She resented her parents, who had always had such high expectations for her. She had never been good enough for them … but they were Muggles, they didn't _understand_. They couldn't understand her as a witch.

No one had ever called her beautiful before, no one had truly appreciated her powers, her ambition and her hunger for knowledge. But did that mean she had to accept to become what Lucius defined as '_an immense asset_' to the Dark side? Did she want to?

She found that she couldn't decide. From one moment to another, she wavered between wanting to accept and to reject the proposition. It was Harry and Ron who, without their knowledge, were going to influence her decision.

Her article finished, Hermione was getting ready to leave the Room of Requirement when she noticed a black book appeared on the desk before her. The golden inscription on the cover caught her eye. The minuscule letters read,

SO YOU'VE CHOSEN THE DARK?  
_A Neophyte's Practical Guide to the Dark Arts_

She was far from a neophyte; she had learnt enough about Dark magic during Auror training. And she hadn't chosen the Dark side; she hadn't and she wouldn't! But the Room of Requirement had proven to know more than she did at times in the past, and if it had shown her this book at this precise time, maybe it knew what it was doing.

Hermione picked the book up and slipped it into a pocket of her duty robes. She left the room carrying three scrolls of parchment.

Lost in thought, she collided with a witch with long dark hair. They both stumbled, and Hermione dropped the scrolls she had been carrying. The black-haired witch bent down to help her gather her scrolls from the floor, and Hermione recognised her former classmate, whom she had not seen since their last year at Hogwarts.

"_Parvati!_" she exclaimed, throwing her arms around the witch's shoulders, pulling her into a hug.

"Hermione?" squealed her former dormmate, who was wearing an even larger amount of eyeliner than when they had been students. "I almost didn't recognise you; you look so different in these robes …"

"You've changed too … you work here?"

"Yeah, I'm the assistant Divination Professor. And you are an Auror," she said, eyeing Hermione's scarlet uniform with envy in her dark eyes. "Your name appears in the _Daily Prophet_ regularly, and you're just as popular in _Witch Weekly_ … so, what brings you to Hogwarts?"

"I'm here on Ministry business, if you must know," Hermione replied dismissively. It was a lie, but it was the answer all Ministry officials seemed to give because it opened doors and discouraged further questioning. "How's Professor Trelawney?" she inquired neutrally. Yes, the old woman had made one – or rather, two – real prophecies, but that did not change the fact that she was completely inept as a teacher.

"She's fine, much better now that I'm here to help her deal with the load of work. Poor dear, having to teach all these ignorant children …" she sighed sympathetically. Then she caught a glimpse of Hermione's palm. "Let me see," she said excitedly, grabbing Hermione's hand without waiting for permission.

_Must be Trelawney's influence_, thought Hermione. Out of politeness, she refrained from saying what she thought of palmistry. It wouldn't be very tactful to tell an aspiring Divination teacher that her treasured art was nothing more than a waste of time. Well, even Professor McGonagall had admitted Divination was _the most imprecise branch of magic_ …

Parvati was running the tips of her fingers over the lines on Hermione's palm, staring and muttering excitedly under her breath. Suddenly, she flinched, stumbled and let go of her hand, clapping her own hand to her mouth. Hermione had to seize her arm to steady her.

"What's the matter, Parvati?"

But Parvati didn't appear to hear her. She stared at her as if not recognising her, as if she was trapped in a nightmare. She was muttering faintly to herself, "Oh my goodness – I hoped it wouldn't be – but who are we to doubt the Fates – no, don't ask me –"

She sounded so much like Professor Trelawney that Hermione had the urge to tell her. _She'll probably think it's a compliment._

"_What?_" Hermione insisted. She had probably had a 'vision' of her death or something, not that she believed in such rubbish, except for the rare true prophecies, but she was still curious.

Parvati suddenly looked into her eyes, and with such intensity that Hermione had to blink and look away from her wide, tragic dark eyes.

"You're the one!" Her eyes sought Hermione's, as if trying to transfer some kind of silent message or warning. "_You_ are the one! I can't believe it! You, of all people … it doesn't seem possible –" her voice grew high-pitched and downright hysterical.

"What do you mean? What about me?"

Parvati gave her a sad, solemn look before closing her eyes. "You are the one," she whispered, "the one who'll betray us all."

Hermione froze, then berated herself for listening to the crazed predictions of Trelawney's prodigy. "Don't be ridiculous, Parvati! You're speaking nonsense …"

And she turned her back to Parvati, who slumped against the wall. But she heard her voice again, echoing behind her. "It starts tonight …"

"What starts tonight?" she asked sharply, turning her head.

"It starts tonight," Parvati repeated, sounding quite crazy.

Huffing impatiently, Hermione exclaimed, "Fine. Don't tell me! Play deaf! Perhaps I'm better off not knowing … always knew Divination was rubbish … Trelawney did say I was hopelessly mundane, not that I'd stand for anything else … better to be hopelessly mundane than batshit crazy!"

She picked up her scattered notes from the ground. Then she walked quickly towards the fireplace, threw in a pinch of Floo powder and yelled "_Ministry of Magic!_" But even when she walked into the noisy, crowded Atrium, she heard echoes of Parvati's crazed voice. _It starts tonight _…

**-**

She Apparated home at about seven o'clock in the evening. She shed her cloak in the entrance hall and walked into the kitchen for a quiet supper. The problem was that there were two people already sitting at her dining table.

"Hermione, what's going on? What are you not telling us?" demanded a disgruntled-looking Harry, who was sitting next to an even more annoyed Ron.

"What do you mean?" she asked apprehensively.

"What Harry means is _this_," and here Ron shoved a parcel into her hands. "We found it on the table. What's the meaning of this?" the redheaded Auror demanded.

She opened the wooden box, which was lined with dark velvet on the inside, and blushed as she saw what it contained. It was a nightdress made of the softest silk, with a low neckline trimmed with lace. The fabric was embroidered in silver threads, which criss-crossed to form floral designs. The whole thing was of a pale lavender colour, the same shade that the Muggle Queen favoured in her coats, and looked quite expensive.

There was no note, no address. There was no way to determine who sent it, although Hermione could take a guess.

She turned to Harry and Ron, her eyes flashing furiously. But the fact that she was smiling was not lost on either of them.

"What gives you the right to open my post?"

Her best friends looked uneasy.

"We thought – we though it might be jinxed. You know, an anonymous parcel …" Harry broke off. She knew that he had probably thought it was a Muggle bomb lying there on her kitchen table, ready to explode …

"And once we saw what was inside," Ron continued for him, "we knew we were right. I'm sure there's some kind of jinx on it. There must be ... I mean, who'd send you a _nightdress_?"

"You know, I seriously doubt it's cursed. In fact, I'm quite certain that it isn't."

"Come on, _anyone_ could have sent it ... probably a Death Eater!"

Hermione kept her face neutral, but privately, she agreed. It was certainly from a Death Eater, but she didn't think he would have jinxed it. The situation reminded her of her third year at Hogwarts and the Firebolt Harry had received from Sirius …

"Don't touch it, it could be dangerous!" yelled Harry when she reached for the fabric.

"No, I don't think it is. The thing is ..." She wondered how she could put this into words without revealing too much. "I have an idea of who could have sent it. A very good idea."

"Really? Who is it?"

Of course they would ask. She couldn't tell them that it _was_ a present from a Death Eater, but this particular Death Eater meant her no harm. "None of your business," she said curtly.

"That's it! I knew it!" exclaimed Ron suddenly.

"What are you talking about?"

"Oh, don't play dumb," snarled Ron angrily. "I Flooed you late Friday night and you weren't there! And you come back in the morning, not telling us anything, and here you're acting as though nothing was wrong! And that isn't the first time, is it? That, plus this _present_. ARE YOU SEEING SOMEONE?" yelled Ron.

Hermione had the urge to tell Ron he sounded exactly like his mother, but decided against it. After all, it would not do well to risk riling up his explosive temper even more. Who knew, he might even try to hex her.

"So what's this? Who's sending you those presents?" asked Harry almost at the same time, although his voice was lost behind Ron's.

… what right did they have to intrude on her private life? Who did they think they were? And suddenly, Hermione had had enough. _That's it!_ All the irritation and frustration she had been feeling these past years finally burst forth. Her face twisted unconsciously into a sneer. She sat up straight, head held high, and glared at her 'friends' disdainfully.

"I don't see how that's any of your business," Hermione spat.

Ron's eyebrows shot up in surprise. "But– but we're your _friends_!" he stammered, clearly taken aback.

"So? I'm afraid that doesn't give you the right to meddle in my private life," she answered coldly.

"Hermione, what's wrong? What happened ..." Harry began tentatively, but his voice trailed off as she turned an icy glare on him.

"_All right!_" Hermione snarled at both of them. "Yes, I am. Does that answer your question, _Ron_?"

Ron's eyebrows had totally disappeared into his hair by now, and Harry was staring at her open-mouthed. The Boy-Who-Lived looked oddly like a gaping fish, but being the quickest of the two, his eyes widened in understanding – and surprise – after about thirty seconds.

"_Well?_" Hermione demanded of Ron, who still looked like he had been hit with a Confunding charm – or maybe an _Obliviate_? "Or is it true, what they say about Weasleys having brains as well-stocked as their Gringotts vault?"

Ron's ears went as red as his hair. What a predictable reaction … they always did that whenever someone mentioned the Weasleys' legendary lack of money.

It took Ron long to process everything that had just been said, and when he did, he went very red in the face. "WHAT? NO, YOU'RE LYING!"

_Lying, am I? Oh, Ron, you'd wish I was._

"That temper of yours will lead you into trouble one day, Ron."

The way she said it sounded slightly familiar to Harry. Where had he heard similar words before?

Harry, the more observant of the two, noticed that Hermione acted _differently_. He had never seen this side of her before. In fact, he had never imagined she possessed such a side ...

"Alright, you two, stop acting like I joined the Death Eaters, for heaven's sake!" _Where did that come from?_

That pulled them out of their daze.

"You _what_?" Harry and Ron said together.

Hermione had a hysterical urge to laugh. "I said, stop acting_ as if_ –"

"Thank God!" exclaimed Ron.

"Do you honestly consider me capable of ... such a thing?" Hermione asked, visibly hurt. It was time to test her friends.

Harry shook his head quickly, but Ron answered nastily, "Wouldn't put it past you, these days."

This time, even Harry looked at Ron incredulously. "Really, Ron –"

"What, Harry? Don't you see that she's not the same Hermione? _Our _Hermione would never joke that way. I don't know what happened to her, but she's not the girl we knew."

Harry fell silent, and she got the distinct impression he wasn't going to defend her again.

Not the same Hermione? Not the _girl_ they knew?

"That's correct. I'm not the Hermione you knew. The Hermione you knew was a girl, while I am an adult _woman_!"

"OK, we know that ..."

She had a sense of déjà-vu. She recalled a conversation with Ron, while Harry had just been sitting there in silence, before the Yule Ball.

"_Hermione, Neville's right __–__ you _are_ a girl _..._" Ron commented in wonder. _

"_Oh, well spotted," she said acidly. _

"_Well __–__ you can come with one of us!" _

"_No, I can't," snapped Hermione. _

"_Oh, come on," he said impatiently, "we need partners, we're going to look really stupid if we haven't got any, everyone else has ..." _

"_I can't come with you, because I'm already going with someone." _

"_No, you're not! You just said that to get rid of Neville!" _

"_Oh, _did_ I?" said Hermione, her eyes flashing dangerously. _How dare he?_ "Just because it's taken _you_ three years to notice, doesn't mean no one _else_ has spotted I'm a girl!" _

_Ron stared at her. Then he grinned. _

"_OK, OK, we know you're a girl. That do? Will you come now?" _

"_I've already told you!" Hermione said, past the point of irritation now, "I'm going with someone else!" _

_They haven't changed,_ Hermione thought. Ron was still the same thick, tactless git, and Harry still sided with Ron. Back at Hogwarts, Harry had never bothered to support her, afraid of losing Ron's friendship. Obviously, Ron was more important to him than she was. But she had always defended Harry, like when Ron had accused him of putting his name into the Goblet for the Triwizard Tournament. _What an ungrateful –_

"Who – who is it?" Harry asked in a croaky whisper.

"What do you mean?" Hermione said in a bored tone, raising her eyebrows.

"WHO ARE YOU SEEING?" shouted Ron, losing patience.

And what gave Harry and Ron the right to demand answers from her? What gave them the illusion she was obligated to tell them anything at all?

Her friends never saw her as an equal, a person who had feelings, just like they – they only saw the know-it-all bookworm who got them out of trouble and helped them in any way she could.

Behind Ron's shouting and Harry's silence, another voice echoed in her head.

..._ you would be an immense asset to our cause _...

"– we put up with you all those years, we were your friends when everyone else disliked you, so you owe us at least an explanation, you ungrateful woman …"

_You owe them nothing; they owe you,_ thought a part of her mind, the part that spoke in _his_ voice.

"Where would you be without us? Where would you go? No one else would have put up with your annoying presence for years –"

_Join us, Hermione. Join the Death Eaters._

Where she'd go? She could go where she would be accepted for what she was, where she wouldn't have to restrain herself from expressing her power, where she could seek and find all the knowledge she craved …

"Who else would stand a woman as annoying as you? No wonder you don't have a boyfriend –"

_Join the Death Eaters, Hermione._

And at long last, she thought, _why not?_

_This time_, Harry was thinking, _Ron has gone too far_. But Hermione's reaction was not at all what he had expected.

The old Hermione would have burst into tears and ran to hide in her room. This Hermione, however, raised her chin proudly, almost haughtily, and replied with a smile, "Oh, you would be surprised."

This was no longer Hermione Granger, former Gryffindor, rule-abiding bookworm, now Auror, and always the best friend of Harry Potter and the Weasleys.

This was Hermione Granger, Lucius Malfoy's mistress, soon-to-be undercover Death Eater and spy for the Dark side.

Ron, however, was unfazed by her reaction, or rather lack of reaction. "AHA! So you're seeing someone, and you won't tell us! You see, Harry? I was right! That's her secret!"

A tinge of red spread over Hermione's cheeks. For an instant, she was prepared to drop her cold reserve. But, closing her slightly open mouth, she stayed silent, her mouth creased in disdain.

In the past, Hermione would have been deeply hurt by their cruel words, but now they no longer bothered her. The knowledge that someone, somewhere, appreciated and accepted her, gave her immunity against their attempts at causing her anguish, letting her listen to their rant with detachment, and she was glad for it.

"So you've got a brain after all," she said nastily. "Wow, Ron, I can't believe it!"

Could she really betray her friends, her colleagues, and the side she was on ... for what? For power, for recognition, for _love_... could she? And the answer was clear, as clear as it had always been, even though she had refused to consider it. Yes, she would betray the Light side, and she would do so gladly ... for love.

Because it was no use deluding herself. She loved Lucius Malfoy; there was no point to denying it ... why else would she have risked so much to keep him out of Azkaban?

_I'll go where I'm wanted and appreciated …_

It was at this moment that she decided to join Lord Voldemort.

It was a moment that history would remember forever.

_Join the Death Eaters … yes. I'll show them that even a Muggle-born can do it._

**-**

Hermione asked her two 'friends' to leave and told them that they were no longer welcome in her home. She also said a few carefully chosen, particularly cruel words to them, just because she could not resist it. Once started, the words seemed to come of their own accord, and she herself was taken aback by the sheer viciousness of some of the things she told them. It felt natural, as though her tongue had suddenly become comfortable with uttering words meant to hurt like knives. In the end, the two men left.

After the quarrel, Hermione collapsed into the nearest chair. What had just happened? Was this the end of their friendship, the friendship that had lasted for so many years? She had told herself she didn't deserve friends like them, but perhaps they did not deserve a friend like her? Perhaps _they_ were the ingrates, they were the ones who owed her, for all the times she had helped them and pulled them out of trouble?

She could betray them all ... _why? Is it worth it?_ her conscience questioned for the tenth time that day. But there were so many reasons. First, because the Darkness could give her everything she had always wanted – such as knowledge, power, recognition and love – which she could never find on the Light side. Second, because she had heard that the Death Eaters were like a _family_, how they were the closest friends for each other, how they protected and defended each other. She had heard rumours Voldemort punished his followers if they let one in their midst get injured in a battle. It was their duty to watch out for each other, as much as it was their duty to do their leader's bidding. She remembered Harry mentioning something Voldemort had said about his followers being his _'true family'_, and she hadn't believed it. But if that was true, it meant the Dark side was far more united and loyal – to their own – than the Light, the _good_ side.

Was she doing this just to spite Harry and Ron? But it was the entire wizarding world that would pay the price, and that wasn't fair ...

But then, she had already betrayed them all; she had broken the Auror Oath in the worst manner. By letting _him_ escape, she had helped Voldemort.

_You have already betrayed them; might as well do it properly,_ coaxed a cynical voice inside her head.

But there was still a doubt in her mind, a fear …

She was a Muggle-born! Even if Voldemort, who was not a pure-blood himself, accepted her, the other Death Eaters sure as hell would not.

There was only one thing to do. She had to ask Lucius, just to make sure.

Would he meet with her? Or would he believe it was a trap, because she was, after all, an Auror?

..._ I have found in you an ally who would never betray me _...

Had he really meant that? Did he really trust her? She was going to find out.

Hermione found a quill and a sheet of parchment.

She thought for a few minutes about how she was going to put the request in words, and the safety precautions. Even if she didn't use their common names, there was still a risk. Anyone who had access to the Ministry records knew her middle name was Antares, and she suspected so did Dumbledore. It was not safe enough, not with what she was intending to write. She could not afford the risk. If that letter was to be intercepted, there would be hell to pay.

One of the things she had learnt during Auror training was that you could never be too cautious. It felt wrong to use these lessons to help the enemy, but …

Perhaps this was the time to reveal one of the things she had never bothered mentioning to the world. Namely, the fact that she spoke French, which she had learnt during her and her parents' repeated sojourns in France, the summers before her second and fifth years at Hogwarts.

Finally, after several attempts at a draft and three pieces of parchment discarded into the fireplace, Hermione came up with a message she deemed brief but acceptable, matter-of-factly stating that she was considering the offer he had made during their previous encounter and that there were several questions that she wanted to discuss with him in person.

Hermione sealed the letter and tied it to the leg of the tawny owl that had been Ginny's seventeenth-birthday present to her. Her hands shook slightly. "Take this to Lucius Malfoy. And do try to stay in the shadows, OK?"

The owl hooted in understanding, although it was looking at Hermione with a rather reproachful look, almost as if it knew what she was doing – or perhaps the lazy thing just didn't appreciate the prospect of a long journey to Wiltshire. In any case, it ruffled its feathers, stretched its wings and took off through the window.

As she watched the reddish-brown bird become a tiny speck in the sky and then finally disappear from sight, Hermione silently said goodbye to the life she had been leading ever since her entry into the world of magic. There was no going back now. Sighing, she sank back into a chair.

But even as she sat there, her decision made, a hint of excitement bubbling in the pit of her stomach, words she had once heard Dumbledore say same floating out of her memory.

_Remember, if the time should come when you have to make a choice between what is right and what is easy, remember what happened to a boy who was good, and kind, and brave, because he strayed across the path of Lord Voldemort. Remember Cedric Diggory._

This was precisely the situation Professor Dumbledore had been warning about ... _a choice between what is right and what is easy_ ... but then, Hermione reasoned, this was exactly the reason why she was joining Voldemort: she did not want to end up like Cedric, or like Harry's parents, or the Longbottoms ... She wouldn't _stray across_ the path of Lord Voldemort, not anymore, no, she would _walk along it_. She wasn't going to repeat the mistake made by all those who opposed Voldemort and ended up dead because of their choice.

**-**

She received his answer the next day, telling her to knock three times on the door of the house she had been to, in Knockturn Alley, at six o'clock the next morning.

There was no fog the morning when she went, wrapped in a heavy cloak, into the dingy street where she would never have imagined she would, one day, go willingly. The sky was clear and the warming autumn sun felt welcome on her chilled shoulders. For once, she was not wearing her Auror uniform; she would have attracted hostile attention with its bright colour.

She stopped in front of the door, feeling a chill go through her as she took in the number 25, carved in metal, glittering. The last time she had been here, she hadn't thought she would leave alive.

She took a deep breath and knocked three times, like he had instructed in his letter.

Almost instantly, there was a click and the door opened. She hadn't had the time to take a step when she was grabbed by her upper arms and yanked inside. She stared at Lucius's face in surprise as he kicked the door closed. She winced and looked at him disapprovingly when it slammed shut with a loud _bang_.

He stepped up so closely to her that his chest touched hers. His eyes looked wild, and for a moment she thought he was going to kiss her. Then he moved back slightly.

"I was not aware that you spoke my forefathers' tongue, Hermione," he said, without letting go of her arms.

She shifted in his grip. "You never asked, and I didn't tell you because I wanted to surprise you," she said, raising her chin proudly. "My parents often spent the summer holidays in Dijon and Aquitaine; I picked it up there."

He nodded curtly. "So. You said you are considering my offer – then what is it that you wanted to discuss?"

Hermione felt small and awkward in her cloak, and she was sure that he could sense her uncertainty. "What if the other Death Eaters don't accept me into the fold? I mean, my blood is no secret ..."

"Do not worry!" he assured swiftly. "Rest assured that you will be an equal among the followers," he said gravely. "The Dark Lord would not tolerate one in his midst being treated as an inferior, for he does not admit inferior beings into his _family_. _I_ would not tolerate it either. If the Dark Lord accepts your fealty, then he considers you worthy despite your – ah – origins, and the others will have no choice but to do so as well. You will be duly recompensed for your accomplishments, which will no doubt be tremendous."

She felt her eyes widen. "Really, you believe I can hope I'll be … appreciated?"

"I am certain of it."

But a hint of worry remained. "It's just … I don't want to be welcomed half-heartedly ..."

"Hermione, you have to trust me when I say, _'Do not worry'_. I assure you that you will not be _welcomed half-heartedly_. The Dark side has been waiting for someone like you to join us for years …"

And she believed him. The last traces of resistance disappeared. There was no reason left for her not to accept the offer.

Her answer came after a moment's pause, phrased in the language of his ancestors.

"_J'accepte._"

Her voice was firm, and the look in her eyes was one of determination.

"Good." There was approval, and relief, in that single word. Then he added, "I would have been obligated to kill you if you had refused."

She had figured that out on her own, but she still found it disturbing to hear the lack of emotion in his voice.

"You would really have killed me?"

His expression didn't change. "The Dark Lord would have stood for nothing else. No one refuses the Dark Lord and escapes the consequences."

It occurred to her then that he must have been sure she would say no, and he had been preparing himself for what he would have to do. That must've been why he had been holding her like that: to stop her from fighting him when she would realise what he was going to do. She guessed that she had surprised him by accepting the offer not even three days after he had made it … she sighed sadly, her shoulders slumping in his hold.

He touched her cheek with a surprising tenderness, before finally kissing her.

He pulled away and let her go almost as soon as she had closed her eyes. "I'll inform the Dark Lord of your decision," he said simply. "He will set the date of your initiation within a few weeks, as is convenient for him. I'll take you to the next meeting, where you will be given the Dark Mark."

She nodded, hiding her apprehension at the prospect of getting the Dark Mark. She was sure that it hurt a lot …

"The Dark Lord ordinarily requires recruits to undergo a series of tests to prove their worth," he continued. "In your case, however, the formalities are dispensed. You will be our primary informant, and you will be inducted directly into the inner circle –"

Hermione looked like she was about to protest, but he raised a hand to silence her before she spoke.

"– but as you are far more useful to us if you retain the Light side's trust, you will not partake in any attacks, as it would endanger your position with the enemy."

That made sense, though when Hermione had considered becoming a Death Eater, the idea was always associated, in her mind, with leading a life of violence, going around terrorising and killing people. But it turned out it wasn't so, and Hermione did not know if she was supposed to feel relieved or disappointed.

_The enemy,_ echoed in her head. _They are your enemy now._ Just this morning, the Light side had been _her _side and the Dark the enemy … but no more. Everything was different now. _The one to betray us all _..._ it starts tonight _…

_She was right,_ thought Hermione. Maybe Parvati Patil really had some Seer abilities, just like her mentor Trelawney. No matter how much Hermione used to dislike the woman, she could not deny that she had made two important prophecies. Perhaps she had been right about her favourite pupil's aptitude for fortune-telling.

But what if Parvati told someone?_ What if she tells Dumbledore? _But Parvati would know that it was useless to tell, because predictions came true no matter what people tried to do to prevent them from happening – that was Trelawney's approach, wasn't it? And who would believe her even if she told them? They would dismiss her as a crazy Seer. No, she had nothing to fear.

"There is a strict protocol about how to behave when meeting the Dark Lord, and failure to follow it will earn you much pain."

Hermione knew that as much as Voldemort considered his followers like his family, he tortured them when he was angry.

"As the most effective lesson is practice, you are going to learn as you do it … I'll correct your mistakes." He smirked at her. "We are going to play a little game, Hermione."

"What kind of game?" she asked apprehensively.

His smirk turned more malicious. "You are going to learn – though practice – what you are to do when you find yourself in front of the Dark Lord. For now, you'll have to pretend that I am he. And since we will be trying to play our roles realistically, your mistakes will be punished … with the Cruciatus."

Her eyes widened. She opened her mouth, but he spoke before she could.

"You are not to speak unless you are spoken to. I do not need to tell you how many times the Dark Lord has tortured my fellow Death Eaters for speaking out of turn … if he does speak to you, you are to answer his questions with honesty and deference, and you are to address him as 'My Lord' or 'Master'. Is this clear?"

She almost blurted out an outraged protest, but clapped her hand over her mouth just in time, the threat of the Cruciatus Curse fully registering in her mind. "Yes … my Lord."

He stepped back. "Kneel," he said.

Hermione lowered herself onto the floor and sat on her heels. With a movement of his head, he gestured to her to approach.

She crawled forward as well as she could, with her robes getting in the way.

"Closer, Hermione."

She looked at him uncertainly. The floor was uncomfortably hard and her legs were starting to ache.

"A little closer … good. Now bend down and kiss the hem of my robes. Not too quickly – you don't want it to appear that you are in a hurry – but do not linger too long either or he might think you are attempting to supplant Bellatrix."

She looked at him with a question in her eyes, but held her tongue. She leaned forward, pushing her hair behind her and hoping it would stay there. She put her hands on the floor in front of her for balance, then bent her head all the way, hoping she wouldn't topple over …

"Now get up."

Hermione raised herself off the floor and stood in front of him. She dusted herself off, her face very pink.

"Very good. I advise against seeking out the Dark Lord's gaze, however, as he is going to take it as an act of insolence. You must demonstrate that you fear him … also, the first time you meet him, you should remain on your knees until you receive the mark."

"Fine … what did you mean by 'supplant Bellatrix'?"

"Bellatrix is to the Dark Lord … what you are to me."

"Oh." There had been much speculation in the Auror Office about whether Bellatrix Lestrange had a _much_ closer relationship with Voldemort than the other Death Eaters. "But isn't she married?"

He smirked. "Aren't I married as well? As for Bellatrix … her husband knows of her relationship with the master. But no one dares to challenge the Dark Lord, not even Rodolphus Lestrange. Now, Hermione … the lesson isn't over."

She glared at him. "Is this really necessary?"

"Yes, it is necessary. There will be no room for mistakes with the Dark Lord. We wouldn't want to give him a reason to kill you, would we?" He swept his cold eyes over her challengingly. "Again, Hermione. And do try not to keep staring at me this time …"

She exhaled noisily and did the ritual again, keeping her gaze on the floor this time.

"When the Dark Lord speaks to you, how are you to respond?"

She gritted her teeth and fought the urge to glower at him in irritation. "My Lord."

He ruffled her hair as she was getting up, and she looked up.

"He's not going to do that, is he?" she asked with a shudder.

"I do not believe he is going to touch you. But if he does … whatever he does, you do not look into his eyes, as that is a gesture of rebellion, particularly when you are not one of his followers yet. He is not going tolerate such insolence from the part of an Auror."

He made her do it again and again until the ritual became a reflex, like she suspected it was for him, and she could do it gracefully, looking at the floor the whole time.

Her knees hurt and she was sure that her face was bright red when he finally grabbed her and threw her onto the couch where she had once attempted, and failed, to stand her ground against him, against the Darkness that had turned her life upside down.

He trapped her against the back of the couch. There was an odd flush on his pale cheeks as he twisted his hand in her hair. She winced but accepted his kiss, relieved that at least the bizarre play-acting game was over.


	8. The Second Female Death Eater

— CHAPTER EIGHT —

_**The Second Female Death Eater**_

On Monday, Hermione arrived at number twelve Grimmauld Place early for the scheduled Order meeting. She now had a mission; she knew she had to gather as much information as possible, because the more she would be able to tell Lord Voldemort on their first encounter, the more chances she had of getting into his and the Death Eaters' good graces, and first impressions were capital on such occasions.

The idea of spying on a large group of oblivious people made her feel oddly excited. She felt an unhealthy jubilation at the thought that all their secret plans would soon be known by those they plotted against, and the fact that she would be the one to leak the information gave her a sense of triumph. Nevertheless, she had to be excessively cautious from now on. A wrong word, an inappropriate expression and they would become suspicious of her … but she would not screw up. She took this mission more seriously than she had ever taken anything in her life, and being Hermione Granger, that was saying a lot.

She remembered Harry telling her about Occlumency, many years ago, and knew why she had to be particularly careful. She would look neither Dumbledore nor Snape in the eyes; she considered it the safest course of action. She could not risk them glimpsing into her mind and accidentally discovering her loyalty no longer lay with the Light side.

Their trust in her was what made her so useful to Voldemort; Lucius had told her so. And she was going to retain that trust, the trust which would be their undoing. The idea of being a spy, a camouflaged enemy in their midst made her nervous, but she knew rationally that it wasn't as difficult a role as it sounded. After all, Peter Pettigrew, who was a mediocre wizard without much intellect, had done it – and no one, not even Dumbledore, had discovered his secret until many years later. And Snape was playing a much more dangerous game with Voldemort; at least the Light side would not kill her if her treason was ever to be discovered. Azkaban did not scare her much, because Voldemort would get her out in no time, but she strongly preferred if it never came to that. She would just have to be careful.

All these thoughts were swirling around in Hermione's head as she made her way towards a door at the far end of the hall.

_So that's what I am now,_ mused Hermione as she went through the door, down a flight of narrow stone steps and through another door leading into the basement kitchen where the Order meetings took place. _That's what I am: a spy._ She imagined a sheet of parchment bearing the official Ministry seal, just like her Auror license, but with these words: _Name: Hermione Granger. Profession: Spy._ An amused grin split her face at the idea.

Forcing her face into a neutral expression, Hermione took a deep breath and entered the long, gloomy room with stone walls and a large fireplace at the far end; it was packed with witches and wizards. Seated around a long wooden table, they were talking in hushed voices buzzing with interest and excitement.

Whatever they found so exciting about fighting Voldemort, aside from the risk of getting themselves killed at any moment, Hermione had always failed to understand.

She surveyed the people in the room, recognising Mr and Mrs Weasley along with their oldest sons Bill and Charlie all sitting closely together. At the end of the table, Hermione's fellow Aurors Tonks and Shacklebolt appeared to be having a heated discussion with Mad-Eye Moody. Also clustered around the table were Lupin, Emmeline Vance, Sturgis Podmore (who had long since recovered from his experience with the Imperius curse as well as the short sojourn in Azkaban that had followed it), and many, many others from the original Order of the Phoenix (the so-called senior members), as well as many of Hermione's former classmates: Neville, Ginny, Luna, Susan Bones, Hannah Abbot and most of the remaining members of Dumbledore's Army, the group Hermione had helped create, who had joined the Order upon graduating from Hogwarts. And of course, Ron and Harry, seated at the far end of the table with their heads together, whispering quietly. But wait a moment –

Harry? What was he doing here? He was supposed to be at the trail where he had been called to testify! Or perhaps he had been excused form his role of witness … perhaps he had convinced Fudge to call in another of the Aurors who had been present at the Diagon Alley fiasco, after all, they had all seen the same thing (except Hermione, but no one knew that).

For the first time, Hermione decided not to sit between Harry and Ron. Staying as far as possible from her former best friends, she chose the empty chair between her colleague Tonks (whose hair was currently a bright red colour that reminded of blood), and Hestia Jones, a friendly young witch with black hair. Aside from a brief greeting to the people around her, Hermione, looking rather distracted, spoke to no one.

The last to arrive were the members who resided at Hogwarts; notably Professors Dumbledore, McGonagall, Hagrid (who waved to Hermione in a warm greeting) and, finally, Snape. As the deputy Headmistress of Hogwarts took a seat on Dumbledore's right side, and the spy took his place on the Headmaster's left, everyone fell silent and the meeting officially began.

Dumbledore stood up. "Good afternoon, and welcome to this meeting of the Order of the Phoenix," the old wizard started in a quiet but clear voice, his blue eyes twinkling as they went around the room, looking at each member in turn. Hermione did not meet his gaze, looking directly over Dumbledore's shoulder. "Severus," said the old wizard, turning to Snape, "have there been any news concerning Vol—" many of the witches and wizards in the room shuddered and winced at the name, "—demort's activities and intentions as of lately?"

_Go on, make your report,_ thought Hermione._ It will be your last._

"I have some fascinating news," started Snape with the customary sneer on his face. "For instance, the Dark Lord intends to send a group of Death Eaters to attack the house of Amelia Bones, Head of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement, and to kill everyone inside it. The attack will take place on Friday at nine o'clock in the evening."

Many people gasped. Susan Bones, now a Ministry official herself, paled. "You-Know-Who is after my auntie? But why?" she asked.

"Madam Bones has sent many of his Death Eaters to Azkaban," answered Kingsley Shacklebolt in his deep, slow voice. "You-Know-Who's goal is to destabilise the Ministry, and so far, your aunt has been a major obstacle."

Susan looked terrified.

"Kingsley is right," declared Dumbledore gravely, "and this is troubling news indeed. Amelia would be the most likely candidate as the next Minister for Magic, if anything were to happen to Fudge. Voldemort's decision to remove her from the spot means he is paving the path for taking on the Ministry … in the near future."

"We have to do something," declared Harry. There were nods and sounds of agreement.

"What do you propose we do, Harry?" Hermione spoke up, resting her elbows on the table. "What if Voldemort himself is there? I think he might be – it sounds like this is really important to him; he might want to oversee the killing …" She didn't want them all to get killed. All right, so Harry might survive again, but everyone else …

Heads turned in her direction, some with confusion, others with fear. They hadn't realised that Voldemort could be at the attack. But there was no surprise; this wasn't the first time she acted the critic. She was one of the few people in the Order who kept a clear head and thought about the risks of each mission.

She felt Dumbledore's eyes fixed on her with an unusual intensity. Hermione, however, did not look at the Headmaster. Her eyes were fixed solely on Harry, who was no Legilimens. So far, Harry had avoided speaking to Hermione after their fight. Now, however, he seemed to have forgotten about his resolution not to talk to her, and he answered fervently:

"But there are things worth dying for, Hermione, don't you understand? To risk you life to save others … it's an _honour_! You're an Auror, you should know … that's what the Order's here for."

Perhaps Harry was unaware that he was saying the exact same words Sirius had spoken mere months before his death. But Hermione did remember, and she wondered curiously, _is history repeating?_

Aloud, however, Hermione continued her stand. "We're not going to save anyone if we die, Harry. I mean, have you even thought about what we're going to _do_ if Voldemort is there?"

Just as Harry opened his mouth to reply, Dumbledore finally intervened, cutting the discussion short.

"Harry, Hermione, calm down. No one is forcing you to participate in the intervention. As for this issue, I believe a vote is in order."

"Those in favour of interceding to counter the planned attack on the home of Amelia Bones?" demanded Dumbledore calmly.

Hermione's hand stayed firmly on the table. As she had expected, there were many hands in the air, more than half ... Hermione tried to see if someone other than herself had not raised their hand as well, but before she could, Dumbledore had said, "And those against the intervention?"

Hermione raised her hand; so did Moody, Molly Weasley and several others.

"Excellent," said Dumbledore. "You are to arrive at Amelia Bones' house at a quarter to nine, Friday night. Are there any questions so far?" People made sounds of negation.

"Here," said Dumbledore, conjuring a scroll of parchment and unrolling it on the table, revealing what looked like the plan of a building. "This is the plan of Amelia's house. There are two exits –" the people around the table leaned over to see more clearly, and Dumbledore continued, "and all the rooms are on the first floor, except the kitchen and the fireplace that are located in the basement. Amelia will undoubtedly be in her study working on one of the prospective law projects when the Death Eaters arrive. It would be best if we get there before them and wait for them."

The people around the table nodded in agreement.

"Which door will they come through?" asked Tonks.

"Unfortunately, we don't know, Miss Tonks," said Dumbledore, "which brings us to the next stage. You will divide in three groups, one of which will arrive by the front door, the second by the back one, and the third by Floo. The three groups are to arrive at a quarter to nine. Is this clear?"

All those present nodded, including Hermione. Yes, she would be there … but there would be no need for the intervention,because there would be no attack. Surely Voldemort would change his plans when he would find out that the Order had been informed.

Dumbledore stood up. "Excellent. Well, this is it. Meeting over. Good-day to you all."

-

After the Order meeting and a tiring day of work at the Ministry, Hermione had arrived home, only to find a sealed envelope on her dinner table, addressed to her in the elegant handwriting she had grown to recognise. The message was short and brief enough to ensure that if someone else were to read it, they wouldn't be able to guess what it was about.

_Rencontre ce soir. Viendrai vous chercher. Soyez prête à huit heures._

Hermione figured it out without difficulty. _Meeting tonight _– well, there was only one kind of meeting he could mean, and that was a Death Eater meeting. The second sentence meant that he was going to come after her – that is, she had to expect a home visit. And the sense of _be ready at eight o'clock_, really, there was no ambiguity in it. Hermione had promptly incinerated the message with a flick of her wand. She had memorised the indications, and it wasn't safe to have such things lying around, even in a foreign language.

And now she was standing indecisively in her lounge, shooting distracted glances around her. She was anxious, more anxious than she could ever remember feeling.

She sat down in a chair, only to jump up a dozen seconds later, unable to keep still. She started pacing the length of the room in an attempt to calm her nerves. She could not face her future master and comrades in such a state. She had to be calm and cool-headed when she would meet Lord Voldemort.

This was it; a new phase of her life was about to begin. She was terrified, but at the same time, she could hardly wait. Time seemed to pass with an intolerable slowness as she thought of everything that awaited her on the 'other side'.

She was startled out of her reverie by the distinct sound of Apparition, only to see a hooded and masked wizard appear in the room. With Auror reflexes, she automatically reached for her wand …

"Good evening, Hermione," a very familiar drawling voice spoke from behind the black mask. "Not going to curse me, are you?"

She promptly lowered her wand and walked forward to greet the grey-eyed Death Eater.

"I couldn't help it, Lucius," said Hermione apologetically, placing her wand back into her pocket. "That was the typical Auror's reaction to the sudden appearance of person dressed like this in their home."

"Obviously. Now," he said, giving her a bundle of black fabric she hadn't noticed him holding, "put that on quickly. The Dark Lord does not appreciate having to wait."

Hermione unwrapped the bundle, revealing heavy black robes and a black mask identical to the one he was wearing. The robes were of a supple, shimmering material, and when she pulled them over her head, the black cloth was long enough to touch the ground below her feet; it fit perfectly and felt comfortable, not constricting her movements like normal clothes did.

"Black is a good colour on you; it truly flatters your complexion," he said appraisingly as he picked up the mask, placed it on her face and secured the clasp behind her head; then he pulled the hood up over her head, tucking her voluminous hair inside.

Then he stared at her.

The sight of her dressed as a Death Eater sent a shiver of thrill through him; this was the ultimate triumph for him, the proof of his power and influence. He had achieved the impossible; he had convinced an Auror, a friend of Potter, to join the Dark side … he wanted to take her right there and then, but he fought against his desire. There was no time; the Dark Lord was waiting, and he would not be pleased if they were late … no matter, he would wait until later that night.

Hermione shivered. Lucius was staring at her, and there was a feral, predatory gleam in his eyes … cold grey eyes glinting through slits in a black mask, watching her with a most disturbing look … just like that day in the Department of Mysteries, where he had scared her nearly to death.

"Lucius," she said quietly, "how do I look in this outfit?"

His voice sounded somewhat husky when he spoke. "I daresay these clothes look much more appealing on you compared to what you Aurors normally wear … and my friends will not be able to guess at your identity; the Dark Lord alone will know who you are."

Hermione had expected the mask to limit her field of vision, but it didn't. Through the slit-shaped eyeholes, she could see the room as though she weren't wearing a mask at all; it was obviously charmed to fit perfectly without obscuring her vision.

She slipped her wand into her new robes.

"Do you remember what you are to do when we arrive in the Dark Lord's presence?"

"Yes."

"Show me," he said.

"Not this again … I thought you said I was doing it right last week!"

"The Dark Lord will not consider that you could do it _last week_ when he tortures you for not doing it correctly – and me for failing to prepare you," he said coldly. "If you are to become a Death Eater, you need to learn to obey those in the Dark Order whose rank is higher than yours, all the more as your misconduct will reflect negatively on me. Do as you are told, Hermione."

It was harder to do this while wearing this heavy cloak and mask, but she knelt and did the ritual without looking up once. At his instruction, she stood up and brushed the dust off her robes. He took her hand in his.

"I cannot inform you of the Dark Lord's location, as I am not aware of it myself, so I'll simply Apparate you there. Are you ready?"

She nodded.

There was a _crack_ and Hermione was whisked off in the familiar sensation of Apparition …

Just before the room dissolved before her eyes, she caught a glimpse of her reflection in the mirror. It was a troubling experience to see the image of a Death Eater reflected back at her.

**-**

They appeared in a dark, eerily silent clearing surrounded by woods. Hermione suspected they were in the middle of a forest.

A tall, thin figure with gleaming scarlet eyes, face pale as a skull, and facial features resembling those of a serpent stood in the middle of the clearing, surrounded by about four dozen wizards, hooded and masked in the same way she and Lucius were. The Death Eaters stood in a silent circle around the one who Hermione guessed to be Lord Voldemort. They appeared to have been waiting for them.

Lucius grabbed her arm and led her forward into the middle of the circle, stopping right in front of Voldemort. He knelt down and kissed the hem of Voldemort's robes, then he stood up and spoke to the Dark Lord in a low voice, so that the other Death Eaters would not hear him. "My Lord, this is the Auror Hermione Granger, who has expressed the desire to join you."

As Voldemort turned his scarlet eyes upon Hermione, his expression was exultant. Meanwhile, Lucius quietly backed away and took his place in the circle.

Hermione remembered the instructions Lucius had given her: _When we arrive, you are to kneel before the Dark Lord and stay in that position until he commands you to stand._

Kneeling in front of Voldemort, her head bowed, she waited.

"Welcome, Death Eaters," said Lord Voldemort. His voice was strangely high-pitched and cold like a blast of icy wind.

"Today is an auspicious occasion. We have a newcomer among us … a newcomer who is going to be of immense value to our side …

"Yes," said Voldemort, his lipless mouth curling in a grin, as the eyes of the Death Eaters swivelled momentarily in Hermione's direction, "A prominent member of the Light side now owes allegiance to me … we have had such useful recruits in the past, isn't that right, Rookwood?"

Voldemort turned to a Death Eater who was standing a little stooped, and who jumped at being addressed directly by the leader.

_Rookwood._ The name stirred a recollection in Hermione's mind … Algernon Rookwood had been an Unspeakable for the Ministry during Voldemort's first rise, all the while passing confidential information to Voldemort. To this day, Rookwood was considered as one of the most prominent traitors to the Light side (closely followed by Peter Pettigrew and Barty Crouch junior), because he had been the highest-ranking Ministry official to join the Dark side. The Unspeakables were regarded as the second most important part of the Ministry personnel … after the Aurors. And today, Hermione was going to break the record. It was she who was going to hold the _respectable_ role of being the Light's most notorious traitor.

Wait – _the most notorious traitor_? What the hell was she thinking? Why did she always assume that something she did would change the world? One spy couldn't make that big a difference. She really had too high an opinion of herself …

"My Lord … yes, my Lord," the one named Rookwood mumbled shakily. It struck Hermione as odd how most of the Death Eaters appeared to be extremely afraid, downright _terrified_ of their Master.

"And you, Wormtail?" asked Voldemort, turning to a short figure on Lucius's left.

"Yes, master," Hermione heard Peter Pettigrew's voice say uncertainly from behind his mask.

"But this surpasses all my expectations," continued Voldemort, smiling sinisterly. "This new servant will contribute immensely to the advancement of the Dark Order by providing us with an ear directly into the core of our most pestilent, loathsome enemies … the Aurors!"

At the end of that statement, the members of the circle stirred, as though of surprise, and some muttered in disbelief. An _Auror_ had agreed to join them? This was an occasion unheard of in history ... sure, there had been Ministry officials turning to the Dark side, but never a Dark-wizard-catcher. If this was true, it was triumph assured for their side.

Voldemort then turned to Hermione. "I have been informed that you, an Auror of less-than-pure blood, wish to join me and to fight for my cause. Is this true?"

Lucius's words came back to her: _Always address the Dark Lord as 'My Lord' or 'Master'. The Dark Lord does not react kindly to disrespect._

"It is, my Lord," answered Hermione. Her voice trembled slightly, and something compelled her to look up, even though Lucius had trained her not to … she looked up into the strangest eyes she had ever seen.

She had known, from Harry's descriptions, what Voldemort looked like. Still, his eyes were indescribable. The irises a glowing, blood red colour, the pupils shaped as vertical slits, like a cat's … those eyes didn't look human, as it was impossible to distinguish the smallest hint of emotion in them – there wasn't any – yet they were oddly captivating. It was as though the Dark Lord was staring right through her, reading the deepest folds of her mind. _Legilimency_, she realised, remembering something Harry had mentioned years ago.

There were mutters of disbelief from the masked group. Some felt it was not safe enough to believe her, others simply could not believe their luck, as this was a huge triumph for their side. And of course, all were shocked that the Dark Lord would accept someone who was not even a pure-blood into their midst. They had also noticed that the new recruit was a woman – her silhouette was decidedly female, and so was her voice – and it surprised them, because women never joined the Death Eaters. Bellatrix Lestrange was the only exception, and everyone knew she had only been admitted because the Dark Lord had a special interest in her.

At that moment, Bellatrix was staring at the new recruit with a distrustful and unfriendly expression.

Lord Voldemort was also looking intently into Hermione's eyes, as though trying to read her mind.

Hermione realised he was checking whether or not she really wanted to join him, or if perhaps she had been sent to infiltrate his ranks. She stared right back, her eyes frank and honest. She had nothing to hide. Her desire to join the Dark side was sincere; it wasn't like she had been sent by the Ministry to spy on Voldemort, was it? Yet she was scared. She understood why the Dark Lord might have trouble believing in her loyalty to the Darkness. She was an Auror, a Muggle-born, a friend of Harry Potter …

This scrutiny would decide her fate; whether she, a Muggle-born, would be accepted into the ranks of Voldemort's faithful Death Eaters … or she would be killed. At that thought, she stared even harder into the gleaming red eyes, inviting the feared wizard to read her thoughts, her darkest secrets, if that was what it took to convince him.

The seconds seemed interminably long. In total silence, the circle of Death Eaters watched as slowly, very slowly, a slight smile graced the Dark Lord's face. Hermione, who had been concentrating on Voldemort's eyes, did not notice it, but Lucius Malfoy, who had been holding his breath, stifled a sigh of relief.

Voldemort finally broke the eye contact, and Hermione instantly looked down.

"So be it," Voldemort announced to the Death Eaters surrounding them. Hermione did breathe a sigh of relief, and under her mask, she was beaming in pride. She had been accepted … she, who had not a drop of wizard blood in her veins, had been deemed worthy by Lord Voldemort himself to be part of his circle of trusted followers!

The Death Eater on Lucius's right side stepped forward and spoke in a harsh female voice. Hermione guessed that this was Bellatrix Lestrange, the only woman in the circle. "But Master, how do we know she is truly loyal to us? She may be lying –"

"She is truthful; I can sense it in her mind. Remember, Bella, Lord Voldemort always knows." The Dark wizard's voice held a slightly menacing tone by the second sentence, which Bellatrix surely didn't fail to notice, because she did not speak up again.

Voldemort raised his wand and waved it in a series of complicated motions that Hermione recognised as the Conjuring spell. A sheet of parchment suddenly materialised in the air in front of Hermione.

She refrained from glancing at Voldemort questioningly.

"This is the oath of allegiance every Death Eater is required to recite at their induction into the Dark Order," he explained, as though he had sensed her question.

She reached forward and grasped the parchment in her hand. Calling forward her sharp, photographic memory, she read it so fast her eyes looked blurred, memorising as she went. She knew she could have just read it off the text, but she wanted to do better. She wanted to impress the Dark Lord.

Rolling up the parchment, Hermione spoke in the solemn, grave voice she had only used twice before: upon her induction into the Order of the Phoenix, back when she was seventeen and barely out of Hogwarts; and to recite the Auror Oath at her graduation from the Academy, two years previously. The words were similar, all three being promises of loyalty. But their meaning wasn't.

"I swear unwavering loyalty and true allegiance to Lord Voldemort –" Hermione paused as several of the Death Eaters let out low hissing sounds. She suspected that this had to be the only time Death Eaters ever pronounced their Master's name: upon their initiation. "– whom I will serve faithfully, in life and death, for all eternity, and devote my mind, body and soul towards ensuring the continued rise and triumph of the Dark Order. _Impedio Oblitteranda Est__ …_"

_Impedio Oblitteranda__ Est._ Latin for 'Obstacles are to be eliminated'. This had to be the Death Eaters' motto … the more she thought about it, the more it made sense. This seemed indeed to be the Dark side's philosophy. Obstacles exist to be removed … nothing stands in our way.

As soon as Hermione had finished speaking the last word, the parchment she was holding in her palm disappeared into thin air.

The Dark Lord nodded, looking faintly impressed. "Lord Voldemort accepts your allegiance. Hold out your arm," he said in the same high, cold voice.

_Which arm?_ She thought quickly, trying to figure it out. Lucius hadn't talked to her about this part of the ritual, but she had read somewhere about the sign Death Eaters had branded into their skin … yes, she remembered now, in _The Rise and Fall of the Dark Arts_, there was a description of the symbol used, a skull and a serpent entwined … Hermione tried to recall the exact words, where the mark was located … brusquely, a particular passage of the book surged from her memory.

_Every Death Eater had the Dark Mark burnt into the skin of their left forearm. To the followers, it was a means of distinguishing each other, as they were often unaware of the identity of their fellows. It also acted as a combination of a Protean Charm and a mobile Apparition point, enabling the Leader to alert all his followers to his calling and allowing them to appear instantly in his presence regardless of where he was._

Hermione extended her left arm, rolled the sleeve of her robes up to the elbow. All fear dissipated, as did any hint of doubt she still had. From the way Voldemort now looked at her, she felt accepted, she felt welcome …

She didn't recoil when the Dark Lord's pallid, unusually long-fingered hand seized hers, and she didn't shiver in his ice-cold grasp. There was not a stir of disgust in her soul at being touched by the wizard who had caused so much pain to those she used to care about, the wizard who had cold-bloodedly murdered hundreds of people and ordered the extermination of thousands, the wizard she used to hate with all her soul. No, Hermione Granger only felt a shining pride, hardly believing what was happening. She had never thought, never expected … her, a Muggle-born, to be given such a chance, such an exception …

Needless to say, the ambitious Auror felt deeply flattered. At last, she had found the recognition she deserved, the acknowledgement she had strived for all her life. At last, she had been found worthy, _special_ …

Voldemort pulled out his wand and held the tip to the skin of her inner forearm. And then he said a spell. "_Morsmordre!_"

Hermione felt as though a red-hot iron was pressed to her skin; fire was burning her flesh. A hiss of pain escaped her, and tears of agony formed in her eyes as white-hot pain obscured her vision ... she clenched her teeth, no, she wouldn't scream, she did not want the Death Eaters to conclude she was weak …

She had been expecting the pain, as she had known the Dark Mark was literally _burnt_ into the skin, but that didn't make it hurt less.

Finally, after about thirty seconds, the pain receded. Her breathing harsh and ragged, Hermione raised her head and stared dazedly at the sign that had appeared on her arm. Shaped like a skull with a serpent protruding, tongue-like, from its mouth, it was painted on her skin in a brilliant crimson colour that reminded her of the Auror uniform. She touched the mark cautiously, as though to make sure it was really there.

From now on, she would have to remember not to roll up her sleeves in battle …

"Welcome to the Dark Order," said the high, cold voice of her new Master. "You are now officially a Death Eater. Hence, we are united under the Dark Mark ... you are part of the family. The Mark will signal to the followers that you are one of them ... remember that the Dark Mark never lies. When you feel my call – your Mark will burn and become black – you are to don the appropriate attire, then Disapparate and Apparate instantly at my side. The Mark will provide the directions ..."

Hermione looked up at the Dark Lord – she was a Death Eater now, she wasn't afraid to meet his eyes – and her gaze portrayed gratitude as she looked at the most feared wizard on earth. The wizard who had given her a chance to prove herself to all the pure-bloods on the Dark side, the wizard who, by giving her the Mark, had made her their _equal _… she would serve him loyally, gladly, she would be devoted to this side that accepted her and valued her …

She crawled forward on her knees and kissed the hem of the Dark Lord's robes, exactly like she had seen Lucius do earlier.

"Stand up," said Voldemort. "Your place is over there," he instructed, pointing a skeletal finger between Pettigrew and Lucius, who moved apart, widening the circle, leaving a gap large enough for one person.

Hermione stood up and walked into the designated space.

Voldemort smiled. The girl was a very valuable recruit. A spy among the Aurors (it wasn't every day a Dark-wizard-catcher joined him; there had been Ministry employees supporting him, but never Aurors. In fact, she was the first Auror ever to join the Dark side), very close to Harry Potter, and not one they would ever suspect – who in their right mind would suspect a Mudblood of being a Death Eater?

_Do it,_ said a voice in Hermione's head. _Tell him. He is your Master now; you have to tell him everything you know._

Hermione stepped forward and spoke. "My Lord, I assume you have heard of the Order of the Phoenix?"

She thought she heard a sharp intake of breath from one of the Death Eaters.

"The Order of the Phoenix?" repeated Voldemort thoughtfully. "You are talking about the secret society led by Dumbledore during my first rise to power, I presume ..."

Hermione was astonished. So Voldemort wasn't even aware the Order had been called together again, an hour after his return, and had been actively working against him ever since? No wonder, during the Dark Lord's first rise to power, the Death Eaters had been eliminating the Order members one by one, but it was not so this time, because he didn't even know who they were. Last time, there had been a spy among the Order, a spy who had undoubtedly delivered Voldemort a list of the Order members and their families, probably along with their addresses. This time, however, Pettigrew wasn't there to report to his Master, and no one had taken his place …

She wondered briefly how Snape managed to hide so much from the Dark Lord. No matter, she would make sure his disloyalty was revealed, and she would provide Voldemort with all the knowledge she possessed that could be of use to the Dark side.

"Tell me everything you know about this Order," commanded the Dark Lord.

And Hermione proceeded to tell everything: how Order was constantly working to stop the Death Eaters from accomplishing their plans, her own involvement in the secret society and their efforts to protect Harry Potter. To the attentive Dark Lord and the silent circle of Death Eaters, she revealed that the Order held weekly meetings at a wizarding house somewhere in London and explained that she could not give the precise location because it was protected by a Fidelius Charm in which Dumbledore was the Secret-Keeper.

At a prompting from Voldemort, who had been listening with wide eyes and a triumphant expression, she named all the members of the Order, all but one. Out of the corner of her eye, Hermione could see one of the Death Eaters shuffling restlessly. The Death Eater who stood on Pettigrew's other side … behind her mask, Hermione grinned in anticipation as she revealed the most important piece of information, the piece she had kept for last.

"My Lord, it's my duty to warn you that Dumbledore is aware of your plan to go after the remaining Bones on Friday night and plans to send the Order of the Phoenix to interfere."

Voldemort was taken aback. How could they know? It looked like there was a leak of information, but it could not be one of his Death Eaters informing them, he would know ... Lord Voldemort always knows. Unless… unless one of his followers was an Occlumens, but that was impossible. Occlumency skills were a very rare talent, and required a lot of power – power none of his Death Eaters possessed, as far as he knew. Then how? The fact remained that Dumbledore knew his plans. The only people to whom the Dark Lord had revealed those plans were the 46 Death Eaters of the inner circle.

The Dark Lord's red eyes were narrowed in rage as he looked around at the masked faces.

"Is that so?" he hissed, his voice pulsing with anger. Hermione thanked Merlin that the anger wasn't directed at her. "Is that true?" he repeated in a menacing whisper, his power palpable like a cloud around him as his eyes went from one cowering Death Eater to the next, glancing at each of the circle. "How is it possible when no one but my _loyal_ Death Eaters possessed that knowledge? How could my plans reach Dumbledore and his crowd when I specifically took measures to ensure the strictest secrecy? Unless there is a traitor in my inner circle …" With each sentence, Voldemort's voice grew louder, but the last suggestion was pronounced in a deathly soft whisper, and the silence became complete.

Once again, Hermione stepped forward, breaking the circle, and took a step in Voldemort's direction. In a small, cautious voice, fearing that he might take out his anger on her, she continued her revelations.

"It's news to you then, my Lord, that one of your Death Eaters – one currently present in this circle, might I add – is Dumbledore's informant?"

Hermione paused as the Death Eaters stirred uneasily; she saw them glance fearfully at each other through their masks. One stood frozen, however.

"This traitor has been hiding his true allegiance from you for years thanks to the Occlumency skills he achieved during personal training with Dumbledore. He's pretending to be loyal to you while actually working toward the demise of the Dark Order," she finished. All of this had been said in a rushed voice, barely stopping to breathe.

Voldemort had never looked more furious or more menacing. His eyes were glowing red slits as he slowly paced up and down within the circle, looking at all of his Death Eaters in turn.

"Which one of you has been reporting our every move to the enemy?" His voice was shaking with rage. "_Which one of you dares betray Lord Voldemort?_" he boomed, resembling a snake about to attack.

No one dared move; no one dared breathe. Then the newest Death Eater broke the silence again. "I know who the traitor is."

Voldemort was mildly surprised. So Dumbledore was even more of a fool than he thought. The eccentric Headmaster was crazy. If the fifty or so members of his secret society knew the identity of their informant, it was _inevitable_ it would, one day, reach the enemy – or did the old fool trust them all so much he had never considered the possibility of one of them defecting from his cause? The Dark Lord wasn't foolish enough to let his followers know the identity of his spies, contrarily to the Muggle-lover.

The Death Eaters shifted agitatedly at that statement. Voldemort looked extremely interested. He turned to his new recruit. "Really? Pray tell, who is it, then?"

Hermione was aware she was signing the Order's death warrant, but if she didn't do this, Dumbledore would know there was a spy in the Order by tomorrow morning. She could not afford them to be suspicious of her so soon, and in order to preserve her position as a secret agent, she had no choice but to do this.

"His name is Severus Snape, my Lord." To her credit, Hermione's voice did not shake.

Said traitor managed to hold his composure, giving no visible indication of the terror he felt. However, under his mask, the expression on his face was one of mingled surprise, horror and fear. He had stood silently while this new recruit revealed the Order's secrets to the Dark Lord, and he had been expecting this part – of course she would divulge the Order's greatest secret as well. In fact, he found this hard to believe – he had recognised the annoying know-it-all voice he had been subjected to in his classroom for seven years, but to think that Miss Granger would join the Dark Lord … he desperately hoped she was an undercover agent sent by the Ministry, but that wasn't likely. If she were, she would not disclose such crucial information about the Light side …

His job as a spy was not to stop her from speaking – he would endanger his position if he were to do that. No, his duty was to report to Dumbledore that there was a spy in the Order and that the Dark Lord knew the Order's plans. But to do that, he had to be alive … he had to warn the Order or this would be the end of the Light side. He had to convince the Dark Lord that Miss Granger was either mistaken or lying.

"I spy _for_ the Dark Lord!" Snape said loudly.

"No you don't! You are a _double agent_!" Hermione shot back more loudly still.

That shut him up … at least for the moment.

Snape looked at her with an unreadable look in his black eyes, although she could guess that behind the façade, his mind was working frantically. Did she really know? Who was she? Was there any way to warn the Order? Would he get out of this alive?

Oh, whom was she kidding? She had no doubt Snape that knew who she was; it wasn't so difficult to figure out. A woman, an Auror who wasn't a pure-blood, a member of the Order … who else fit that description? Tonks? Hermione's voice alone should have been enough to give away her identity.

Snape spoke in the low, sneering voice Hermione knew all too well. "My Lord, I am sure there is a misunderstanding. This ... _witch_ probably believes in the act that I put up to convince the old fool … Dumbledore believes that I am his spy, but you _know_, my Lord, that I am your loyal servant!"

Voldemort stood still for a moment, a thoughtful expression on his face. "Are you sure of your facts?" he demanded of Hermione.

"Absolutely certain, my Lord," she replied. She was relieved to hear her voice did not shake.

Snape stared intently into the girl's brown eyes. Images flashed though his mind …

A shady garden with the moon glimmering overhead … a brown-haired witch wearing the customary red robes of the Aurors, in the embrace of a blond wizard whose sleek hair shimmered like gold … '_Join us, Hermione, join the Death Eaters …_'

Snape shook his head sharply, breaking the Legilimency, and in spite of his self-control, he could not stop the horror that seeped into his eyes.

Lucius looked at the traitor in disgust. He used to consider this man a friend; he had even respected him. Draco spoke of him with such high regard … if he were to believe his son, Snape was a great teacher … of course, Snape openly humiliated Potter, which had been an act good enough to fool the Dark Lord, and Draco, the gullible fool, had believed it …

"But my Lord –" there was a hint of panic in Snape's voice now, "surely you don't believe the lies this girl is spewing – I have always been loyal to you and only to you –"

In her mind, Hermione heard echoes of the same voice from years ago; memories played out before her eyes …

_That is the second time you have spoken out of turn, Miss Granger. Five more points from Gryffindor for being an insufferable know-it-all._

_KEEP QUIET, YOU STUPID GIRL! DON'T TALK ABOUT WHAT YOU DON'T UNDERSTAND!_

_Miss Granger, HOLD YOUR TONGUE!_

_I see no difference._

Hatred rose in Hermione, hatred like she had never felt before. The emotion was so strong she was quite sure ordinary people were not capable of experiencing it. Loathing. Rage. And the thirst for vengeance, so strong it was overwhelming. This was something only Death Eaters felt, and they acted upon it when they had the chance. Her chance was now.

Her wand was out in a second and the word left her tongue before her mind caught up with it. "_Crucio__!_"

Professor Snape collapsed on the ground, writhing and shrieking. Hermione was surprised the curse even worked at all. The Unforgivables were part of the Auror training curriculum, but she had only practiced on spiders. Harry had been the quickest to master it then. Hermione had been the second. She had practiced relentlessly, following the teacher's instructions to the letter until she got it right. It wasn't that she had wanted to learn the spell, but she hadn't had a choice – she had had to do it to pass Advanced Dark Arts.

This was the first time she was casting an Unforgivable Curse on a human, and she hadn't really expected to do it right the first time, but she could not deny the strange thrill she felt at her success.

After a few moments, she lowered her wand. The traitor lay upon the ground, gasping for breath.

"See you in hell, _turncoat_," Hermione spat contemptuously at him. Then she glanced at Voldemort apprehensively. Was he displeased with her outburst?

But Lord Voldemort was laughing, a cold, empty laugh with no hint of happiness in it. "I see what you meant now, Lucius, when you told me that this woman was inherently Dark. For it takes a rare talent to cast the Cruciatus Curse successfully on the first attempt … a very rare talent."

Bellatrix Lestrange, who had been looking at Hermione rather sceptically, now stared at her with approbation and a hint of wonder. Not even she, who had been taught personally by the Dark Lord, had managed to cast the Cruciatus Curse correctly – and to hold it for almost a minute – the first time she had tried it. This girl had an unusual aptitude for the Dark Arts, and that was enough to gain Bellatrix Lestrange's respect.

Snape, however, had stood up shakily and made a desperate last attempt. "My Lord_, please_! I would rather die than betray your Lordship –"

"_Silence!_" interrupted Voldemort, and his voice held barely restrained rage as he spoke. "Severus, I have nothing more to say to you. You have earned the honour of being killed personally by Lord Voldemort. _AVADA KEDAVRA!_"

And in the flash of green light that followed, the Dark side's most successful traitor ceased to exist, though not before throwing a look of disgust upon the new Death Eater who was watching, her head held high, satisfaction in her eyes. This was her vengeance for all the times he had made her cry …

In the silence that followed, the Dark Lord spoke. "You all bear witness, my Death Eaters, to what happens to those who are foolish enough to betray Lord Voldemort." He aimed his wand at the corpse. "_Evanesco__!_"

The body vanished.

"Now that our ranks have been cleansed of treacherous filth, there are slight modifications to be made to our plan. The assault on the home of Amelia Bones will take place a day early, on Thursday instead of Friday. The hour remains the same."

"You, my spy," said Voldemort, approaching Hermione where she stood in the circle and halting before her, "are not to participate in any of our offensive moves. You are dispensed from appearing at my call if doing so might compromise your position among the enemies. I expect you to report to me with all information you come across that you think may be of use to us. You will send reports to me by owl, and for security reasons, you are to sign all messages not with your name, but with the adage of the Dark Order, _impedio oblitteranda est_. Is this clear?"

"Yes, my Lord," she answered.

Satisfied, Voldemort stepped back. "Death Eaters, you are dismissed for today," he said before vanishing without a sound. The Death Eaters followed suit by Apparating away, except for the other female Death Eater who had been glaring at Hermione at the beginning of the meeting.

The woman pulled off her hood and mask, revealing Bellatrix Lestrange's face. Her eyes were gleaming with the same ferocity, the same energetic zeal Hermione had seen in them at the Department of Mysteries, seven years earlier. However, her face no longer looked as gaunt, and she no longer resembled a walking skeleton. She had obviously been eating a great deal and had filled up a little, and although she was still very thin, her bones no longer stuck out in sharp angles. Her skin, however, was still that livid, greyish shade that proved that she had spent years deprived of sunshine.

Hermione felt alarmed that Lucius had Disapparated with the others, leaving her alone with the most feared Dark witch in the country. She understood that it would have looked suspicious if he had shown her attention in front of the other Death Eaters, and some of them may have suspected the truth of their relationship and informed his wife of it, but she still found it upsetting that he had brought her here and left her to stand alone against people who surely hated her. _Maybe he doesn't care anymore now that I've done as he wanted_, she thought, horrified. She had just joined the Death Eaters for him; how could he leave without even acknowledging her?

_No, I'm making conclusions too soon_, she thought firmly, fixing her attention on the dark-haired witch who had stayed behind to talk to her, it appeared.

Through her heavily lidded eyes, Bellatrix was looking at Hermione with a grudging respect. "Welcome among us, Auror," she said in a harsh voice, sticking out her ashen hand in an offer of friendship.

Hermione suppressed the abhorrence she used to feel toward Bellatrix. This was the woman who had tortured Neville's parents into insanity, the one who had killed Sirius – but she wasn't supposed to care. They were on the same side now, both Death Eaters, they were family ...

She clasped the proffered hand. "It's nice to meet you again, Mrs Lestrange," she said sincerely.

"Again?" demanded the older woman. "I do not remember ever knowing you."

"We have met before. Go seven years back … you remember the raid on the Department of Mysteries where you failed to retrieve a prophecy for your – _our_ Lord?"

"If I remember?" shrieked Bellatrix, "I certainly remember! How could I forget how my Master was disappointed with me? How could I forget being thwarted by that … that _boy_! Potter came after me – after I killed my worthless cousin – even tried to use the Cruciatus curse on me!"

"Did he?" asked Hermione in shock. Harry had never told her about that. Sure, he had mastered the three Unforgivables with startling ease during their Auror training, but she could never have imagined Harry had attempted to cast that curse when he was _fifteen_!

"He didn't do it right – didn't _mean_ it – he had obviously never used an Unforgivable curse before, did not know how to do it. Still, it hurt ... but only for a second."

Hermione did not know what to think of this newly revealed side of her former best friend. Recovering quickly, she went back to the subject.

"Well, then, perhaps you remember a bushy-haired girl among the team of children Ha— Potter brought with him? That was me."

It was Bellatrix's turn to be shocked. "You were a friend of Harry Potter?" she exclaimed in disbelief.

"Yes, I used to be a very close friend of Harry's, actually … but no more, as you can see. Otherwise I wouldn't be here, would I?"

"Oh, this is fantastic!" Bellatrix exclaimed so suddenly Hermione jumped back a little. "You know Potter – he trusts you! So you'll help us defeat him, right?" she demanded, her breathing becoming shallow with excitement.

"Certainly, if that is what our Lord desires," replied Hermione. She would prefer if it wasn't her hand that held the wand that would kill her former best friend, but she would set a trap for Harry if she had to. She knew it was one of the reasons why Voldemort had accepted her into the fold.

"Great! We'll finally be rid of the infuriating boy – oh, Master is going to be _so_ happy …" A hint of pink coloured the woman's livid cheeks and her eyes had suddenly acquired a strange lively glint.

Hermione noticed Bellatrix still called Harry a boy, and she neglected to correct her, as Harry was certainly no longer a boy. Bellatrix was almost boiling with excitement, it was visible. Hermione gave the older woman an indulgent smile. The Dark witch definitely wasn't as insane as the rumours claimed, but her sojourn in Azkaban had made her a bit ... impatient. From what Hermione had heard of her, Mrs Lestrange had always been a woman of strong emotions, devoted to Voldemort body and soul – that was what the Light called 'fanaticism'. That, and her easily excitable personality, which reminded of a child who had not learnt self-control. Or perhaps she had unlearnt it in the boredom and anguish of Azkaban …

In any case, Hermione understood Bellatrix, and she could not blame her. She even felt some pity for her.

Hermione and Bellatrix became somewhat friends, after that conversation. Being the only two women in the circle of Death Eaters, each had a particular respect for the other, and they understood each other rather well, despite the differences between them. Bellatrix had decided to overlook Hermione's non-wizard origins only because her Master had told her to do so, and her Master was always right. To Bellatrix, the Dark Lord was absolute authority. Hermione, on the other side, chose to distance herself from the people she had formerly considered as friends, and therefore, the crimes Bellatrix had committed did not concern her anymore. _After all, I am one of_ _them_ _now,_ she told herself as she thanked Bellatrix for her offer to drop by at her house for a cup of tea.

**-**

Miles away, at number twelve, Grimmauld Place, Harry Potter suddenly felt sick as a searing pain spread across his forehead. His scar was burning so violently it felt like someone had stabbed him in the head with a knife. And at the same time, Harry felt a peculiar sensation ... a feeling of happiness, of triumph. He did not know where he was, he did not even know _who_ he was anymore. All he knew was this feeling of triumph and jubilation, and he was laughing ... laughing insanely, maniacally ...

He heard a distant voice calling his name … "_Harry!_"

"HARRY! _HARRY!_"

Harry opened his eyes, and realised that he had fallen off his chair and lay on the floor, his scar throbbing painfully. Ron was standing over him, looking very worried.

"What happened, Harry? Was it You-Know-Who again?"

"He's really happy," gasped Harry, sitting up shakily, taking deep breaths to repress his nausea. "Something _really_ good has happened … an accomplishment that surpasses his wildest expectations …" Harry spoke, but the words weren't his own, even as he knew they were true.

Ron stared at his best friend who was, once again, _reading You-Know-Who's mind_.

**-**

Upon arriving at the Wildrose Den, Hermione felt exhausted, after all the tension and emotions she had been through during the day, and wanted nothing more than to collapse on her comfortable four-poster bed and to sink into a deep sleep. Hence, she removed her clothes, hid the Death Eater garments under her bed – she would find a better place to keep them later – and put on the lavender-coloured nightdress she had been wearing every night ever since she had received it.

She glanced into the mirror. The silk nightdress looked very pretty on her, accentuating her curves nicely.

Hermione put out the lights and crawled under the covers, rubbing her left forearm distractedly as she thought about the day's events. _I am a Death Eater._ She could hardly believe this ...

Sleep eluded her that night, as Hermione tossed and turned, tormented by doubts and fears. Had she done the right thing? What if she got caught? What if –

There was a loud _crack_ as someone Apparated directly into her bedroom. Hermione searched the nightstand for her wand ... she found it and aimed it at the dark figure approaching her bed.

For the first time, Hermione found out what Snape had meant when he had told Fudge about the Dark Mark being a means of distinguishing each other for the followers, and the significance of Voldemort's words: _The Mark will signal to the followers that you are one of them_. Hermione now knew it worked the other way around, too. For in that second, she felt a tingling sensation in her left forearm, and instinctively she knew she was in the presence of a fellow Death Eater. But she did not have time to think about it.

A hand seized her wrist, prying the wand away from her, and pinning her hands above her head. Hermione recognised the touch of her aggressive lover and relaxed slightly. In fact, she was glad to see him, now more than ever ... if there was someone who could make her forget all her problems, it was he.

"Now, now, was that any way to greet a guest, Hermione? Where are your manners?"

Lucius, it seemed, could not resist the chance to give her a fright, to have her as his trembling captive for a moment, as a reminder of the time, not so long ago, when they had been enemies, an Auror and a Death Eater …

"Is this the way a civil guest would act?" she retorted, no longer feeling tired at all.

"I never could resist the opportunity to have a bit of fun; the Dark Lord understands this about me," he drawled.

_The Dark Lord_. Like Draco was always talking about his father, Lucius did the same about the Dark Lord, as though the Dark Lord's opinion was the only one that mattered, as though Voldemort was absolute authority … which, to him, she suspected he was.

"Now, really, why are you here?" demanded Hermione, slightly annoyed.

"Why, Hermione, can't a man visit his mistress to, er, wish her a good night?"

"Yes, I'm _sure_ that's why you are here. To, uh, '_wish me a good night._' Really, Lucius ..."

"You are correct, that is not the only reason ... I knew this nightdress would look alluring on you," he said suddenly, before leaning down to kiss her. Hermione fell back on the duvet …

-

"You're not leaving?" she asked in a tiny voice.

The previous weeks, he would come to her house when it pleased him and leave a few hours later, never staying for the night. He would kiss her in farewell and Apparate back to his manor, because his wife would become suspicious if she didn't find him in the house when she woke up.

"I do not see why I should."

"But your wife …"

"Narcissa believes that I am out on business for the Dark Lord." He smirked. "If the Dark Lord himself approves of this, does it matter much that she doesn't? Narcissa needs to learn to accept what she cannot change. She might be _dreadfully_ unhappy, of course, but she knows her place … and I'll remind her if she ever forgets."

Hermione smirked at that, too, but not without a hint of unease. She didn't care what he did to his wife – even if, by the malevolent glint in his grey eyes and the cruel amusement in his voice, she guessed it had to be something painful – as long as he didn't do the same to her.

Lucius Malfoy was a man who sought to control everything – and every_one_ – around him. Hermione knew he would not hurt her as long as she was under his control. But if she opposed, challenged, defied or disobeyed, or, heaven forbid, cheated on him … then, she had no doubt he would not hesitate to use any means – highly brutal, violent ones – to put her back in her place. He wouldn't ever take no for an answer, Hermione knew that much. He would not tolerate disloyalty or disobedience.

She wouldn't be surprised if he used the Unforgivables on his wife when she refused to do as he said. He was the Master … and he would have made a fine Dark Lord.


	9. The Art of Deception

_Disclaimer__: The Harry Potter universe and its components belong to their creator, J. K. Rowling._ _No money is being made and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended with this work._

A/N: Happy New Year, everyone! Thanks again to all who took the time to review. I appreciate every comment you make (yes, even the criticism). :)

* * *

— CHAPTER NINE —

_**The Art of Deception**_

Hermione was pulled out of her sleep by a strident, loud, annoying sound that just wouldn't stop. It was not the sound of her alarm clock – she had charmed it to a more musical, softer tune – but she recognised the noise. She had heard it far too many times to count during the past five years.

This was the call every member of the Order of the Phoenix heard whenever Dumbledore was calling an urgent meeting.

Order members had learnt to dread this sound, as not only did it often wake them up in the middle of the night, but it also meant something _very_ bad had happened. Like the death of a member of the Order, or an attack on the home of a prominent Ministry official. Hermione, too, had learnt to both fear and hate the sound the Order members had labelled the _distress signal_, as it necessarily meant something bad, and what was even worse was that you never knew exactly what. Fear of the unknown was the worst kind of fear.

But this time, Hermione felt no trepidation at the dreaded sound. Because this time, she _did_ know what had happened – and although it was bad, very bad news for the Order, she no longer considered herself part of it, so it didn't concern her.

"What is _that_?" Lucius asked groggily, blinking sleepily. "Is it one of those awful things Muggles employ as alarm clocks?"

"No, it isn't. Watch," said Hermione, "and listen. But don't speak, or he might hear your voice."

"_He_?"

Hermione shook her head, not answering. She calmly got off the bed, smoothed her nightdress and ran a hand through her dishevelled hair in an attempt to neaten it. Then she reached for the outwardly ordinary pocket mirror that lay face down on her bedside table, where the alarm seemed to be coming from. And it was just a mirror like all others … until Hermione picked it up and tapped it with her wand.

The irritating jingle stopped. The surface of the mirror clouded over, then cleared, revealing not Hermione's reflection but a moving, real-time image of Dumbledore's face.

The expression on the old wizard's face was grim. "All members of the Order of the Phoenix are called to the Headquarters for an urgent meeting at the present hour," Dumbledore stated gravely.

Lucius smirked.

Hermione nodded to the mirror, knowing Dumbledore could see her, although she had never understood how he managed to watch all the members of the Order at once. Seeing that no further information was forthcoming, Hermione tapped the mirror with her wand again, shutting off the screen. The surface blurred, and Dumbledore's face disappeared in a swirl of colour.

"The old fool actually sounded worried," drawled Lucius, smirking. "Wonder what the meeting might be about …"

"He has probably guessed the reason of his secret agent's failure to return," Hermione ventured, opening the wardrobe. She pulled out her Auror robes and dressed quickly, not minding Lucius' observant gaze fixed on her.

"I am sure you realise I have to attend the meeting, Lucius, so you do not mind if I leave now, do you?" she asked lazily. Lucius could swear she was becoming more and more like him with each day that passed.

"No, Hermione, you may leave. Did the Dark Lord not say you refrain from doing whatever may '_compromise your position_ _among the enemies_'?"

Hermione wrapped the red cloak around her shoulders, wondering why she was asking for his permission to leave her own house, of all things. "Yes, I do remember our Lord's instructions, Lucius. _Au revoir_¹."

And she Disapparated to the door of twelve Grimmauld Place.

**-**

"As you may have noticed, Professor Snape isn't with us today. I am afraid he may not have returned from his latest meeting with Lord Voldemort –" Dumbledore paused, waiting for the gasps and flinches to subside, "– which took place late last night."

_At eight o'clock, to be precise_, thought Hermione. It was a good thing it never occurred to Dumbledore to cast _Prior Incantato_ on the wands of each of the Order members, because it would have revealed that the last spell cast by Hermione's wand had been the Cruciatus Curse.

Dumbledore's statement was met with silence, followed by gasps of horror and disbelief as the meaning sank it. _May not have returned_ … the Order members exchanged looks of fear and dismay as they understood what Dumbledore avoided saying directly. Their spy was probably dead.

"You think … could it be that You-Know-Who discovered Snape's status as a spy?" Ron asked, earning a glare from his mother.

"_Professor_ Snape, Ron," Molly Weasley admonished, then turned to look at Dumbledore anxiously. "What do you think, Albus?"

"I fear that may indeed be the case, Molly," said Dumbledore.

"Er, Professor Dumbledore?" Harry started hesitantly.

"Yes, Harry? Do you know something?"

"Er, it's just … well, my scar hurt last night …"

Hermione's head perked up in interest. She heard Dumbledore say in an almost apprehensive voice, "Go on, Harry."

"I could tell Voldemort was extremely happy, he was very pleased about something, but I could not tell what …"

At that, Dumbledore looked even more dismayed. He closed his eyes in weariness for a second. "It is as we feared, then."

"But Albus," started Professor McGonagall, who looked very white, and Hermione could see a single tear glistening in the corner of her beady eye, "how could they possibly have known? How could You-Know-Who find out …"

"Your guess is as good as ours, Minerva," said Dumbledore quietly.

"Unless there's a filthy traitor among us," grunted Mad-Eye Moody, his magical eye spinning. Hermione did not dare move. The retired Auror's magical eye could see through clothes, and if he had the idea to glance at her left forearm …

At Moody's words, the Order members glanced suspiciously at each other. It seemed like the suggestion was plausible, and they did not know who to trust anymore. To know one in the room was probably a camouflaged enemy … and to have no idea who – it could be anyone, really … what a frightening concept!

"Now, Alastor, let's not make conclusions prematurely. We do not have enough information to conclude anything," said Dumbledore.

Remus Lupin spoke up, the voice of rationality as usual. "Let us get this straight. We no longer have a spy among Voldemort's followers, and what's more, it may be likely that he now has a leak into our plans …" In spite of his dislike of Snape, Lupin sounded very worried.

No one answered him.

"Oh, Albus, what are we going to _do_?" asked Professor McGonagall, and it was obvious, from the sound of her voice, that she was holding back tears.

"We will not give up, Minerva; we will not give Voldemort the satisfaction. We will unite and fight him – and we will win," declared Dumbledore fiercely to the nods and noises of agreement from the audience.

Some discussion followed, which Hermione found pointless and highly boring, though she had to maintain a carefully constructed mask echoing the emotions of those around her. She had to struggle not to show what she was feeling at the moment: the satisfaction and pride that comes with the sense of a job well done. But she couldn't afford to give them a reason to suspect her. She couldn't give Moody a reason to look at her left arm with his magical eye.

Hermione felt very relieved when Dumbledore finally declared the meeting was over. As the Order members left, they were silent and bearing glum expressions, for once not gossiping excitedly amongst themselves. The only thought on their minds was, _what do you think will happen now?_, but no one dared say it out loud.

**-**

The following days at work were just plain _hell_. The Dark Lord's attack on Madam Bones had been successful; the Ministry was in shock at the death of one of their most prominent officials, and the Aurors, as part of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement, were grieving the loss of their leader. Fudge had yet to appoint a replacement, though Hermione guessed it would probably be the Minister's junior assistant, Percy Weasley.

Hermione was in regular correspondence with Lord Voldemort. She owled him almost daily, informing him of major raids planned by the Aurors, as well as the machinations of the Order.

Aurors were constantly being ambushed, and many wondered how the Death Eaters knew exactly when and where they would strike. Hermione alone escaped unharmed, because every time she duelled with a Death Eater, the Death Eater would feel a meaningful tingle in their Mark, signalling that she was one of theirs, upon which they would stop and stare at her in disbelief. Then they would remember their Lord's words: _the Dark Mark never lies_. After that, the Death Eater either broke off the duel in search of someone they _could_ kill, or continued it just for the sake of appearances, both 'opponents' using minor, harmless curses. Occasionally, she let them Stun her, thus ending the mock duel.

However, the Death Eaters did not hesitate to kill Hermione's colleagues, and many times, she had been the only one in the team to survive. She rose in rank quicker than ever, and even Fudge had to admit she was more skilled than most. She was now considered one of the Ministry's best Aurors and trusted with highly important, dangerous missions. Such as being in charge of the hunt for prominent, high-ranking Death Eaters.

Thus, during one of the raids, Hermione, Tonks, and Neville found a small group of Death Eaters _waiting for them_ in an abandoned warehouse they were intending to search for Dark artefacts. True, there were only four Death Eaters, but the Aurors were still outnumbered. They were three in the team, and since they really shouldn't have counted on Hermione to defend them, in truth they were two against five.

Hermione was maintaining a mock-up of a duel with one of the Death Eaters, in which both opponents were casting pointless spells like _Rictusempara_, _Tarantallegra_ and _Wingardium Leviosa_, all of which were countered with a _Protego_, and Hermione was rather having fun …

Yes, it was amusing, at least until she heard a shout of "_Avada Kedavra!_" and looked up just in time to see Neville fall to the floor, the silhouette of Bellatrix Lestrange standing triumphant over him. And only then did Hermione notice Tonks lying on the floor at Bellatrix's feet, as lifeless as Neville.

Hermione was the only person left standing who was wearing the red Auror uniform. But predictably, the four Death Eaters did not attack her. Their duty done, the three wizards nodded respectfully to Hermione before Disapparating. Bellatrix lingered after her fellows had left, squealing about how the Dark Lord was going to be happy with her.

"And do you know, Auror, that _I_ killed them both? Longbottom and my worthless half-blood niece! Finally! Oh, I can't believe this …"

Hermione steadily complimented her fellow Death Eater on her skills: "It is no wonder, Bellatrix, that you are one of the best duellers in the Dark Lord's service. But you'd better go now before they send reinforcements."

Bellatrix sighed, still giddy about her accomplishment, and reluctantly Apparated away. Left alone with two corpses in the dark storeroom, Hermione noticed abruptly that the Death Eaters had forgotten to do something. They had forgotten to send the Dark Mark into the sky, which they always had to do whenever they killed, thus signing the act in the name of the Dark Order. The point of it was to make the world know they were responsible for the deaths, so that people would fear them even more. The Dark Lord was going to be displeased when he would find out that Bellatrix and the others had neglected this crucial step.

Notwithstanding her being dressed as an Auror, Hermione had the Dark Mark on her arm, and thus, was she only Death Eater left on the scene. And in such situations, Death Eaters had the obligation to clean up for their comrades' blunders.

She had never cast that particular spell before, but she knew the incantation. She had heard Barty Crouch junior speak it at the Quidditch World Cup, where the Ministry wizards had even suspected her of doing it because she had shown an understanding of the way the spell worked.

Hermione figured she had to be outside to cast the spell. She stepped out of the warehouse, forcing herself not to look back at the lifeless faces of her fellow Aurors, frozen in death.

She glanced around nervously. What if the Ministry _did_ send reinforcements? If she was caught doing this … But her duty was first to the Dark Lord, and only then to the Ministry; she had to remember that.

She pulled out her wand and aimed it up at the sky. With a deep breath, she shouted, "_MORSMORDRE!_"

A huge green version of the Dark Mark erupted from the tip of her wand; glittering in an emerald-coloured mist, it rose up into the sky above. The serpent-tongued skull, still growing in size, was rising higher and higher over Hermione's head, illuminating her from above with a green light the colour of the Killing Curse.

Bathed in green light, Hermione suddenly realised that should anyone be looking this way at the moment, they could see her and recognise her features, because the light coming from above was bright as sunlight.

She promptly Disapparated, intending to arrive at the Ministry, feign a fit of hysterics and inform them of Tonks and Neville's deaths, and tell them that she herself had narrowly escaped being killed.

-

When she finally managed to get away from the Ministry and arrive home later that day, Hermione felt tired and depressed. She sank despairingly down into a canopy in the lounge. She had the urge to cry. Neville and Tonks, her fellow Aurors and friends, were dead.

She had led them into an ambush, and she had watched two of her colleagues, one of whom was a former Hogwarts classmate, die.

Hermione was thinking about the past. She remembered how close she, Harry, Ron and Neville had been. Friends who would have done anything for each other … they were the golden quartet, closer than friends and more loyal than siblings … she recalled how they used to fight together; how happy they had been when they realised they would be affronting danger together just like they had at Hogwarts. But she had broken the quartet, she had destroyed it all …

She remembered Neville, the timid boy who had run into her compartment on the train when she had been going to Hogwarts the first time, the boy who had been crying about having lost his toad. Hermione had a good heart, she felt the duty to help those in distress, for was it not the duty of the strong to protect the weak? And she had taken Neville under her wing, so to say. She remembered helping the poor boy in Potions, where he had been scared out of his mind by Professor Snape; she remembered a stuttering Neville asking her to the Yule Ball in fourth year. She remembered guiding the same boy, now grown up and more confident, in his Auror training.

She recalled how, when they had had to learn to cast the Unforgivables in their last year of training, Neville had been unable to correctly manage the curse that had destroyed his parents – until Hermione suggested in an undertone in his ear that he visualise Bellatrix Lestrange's face when casting the _Crucio_. He had pulled it off quite well, after that … with almost, but not quite, as much talent – or _zeal_ – as Harry. Their instructor had been taken aback by the two wizards' – and Hermione's – ability to wish so much pain on someone (in that particular case, a spider).

All for nothing … helping Neville pull through his exams at Hogwarts and at the Auror Academy, all for nothing … if it weren't for Hermione, Neville would never have become an Auror … and if it weren't for Hermione, Neville would not be dead.

Hermione recalled an old memory of Sirius and Lupin confronting Pettigrew in the Shrieking Shack.

_What was there to be gained by fighting the most evil wizard who ever existed? Only innocent lives, Peter._

_He would have killed me, Sirius!_

_Then you should have died rather than betray your friends, as we would have done for you._

She was no better than Pettigrew, betraying her friends like that … _But haven't they betrayed you first?_ hissed a part of her mind. But this time, it did not alleviate her guilt as she thought of the fate that awaited her former friends. Death. Only death awaited them if the Dark side won.

And the Dark side would not be winning if it weren't for Hermione's cooperation. It was all her fault, every death that happened from the day she had started passing information to Lord Voldemort … everything was her responsibility. The other Death Eaters wielded the wands and spoke the curses, but it was Hermione who made it possible. Why? Why had she betrayed them so? What had Tonks and Neville done to her? What had they done that made them deserve death?

Hermione knew the answer to that. Nothing. They hadn't done anythingto her. They did notdeserve death. They were innocent. But she wasn't … it was _she_ who deserved death … silent tears were rolling down Hermione's cheeks.

Another snatch of the conversation in the Shrieking Shack came to mind. _You should have realised if Voldemort didn't kill you, we would._ Would _her_ friends kill her, if they knew? True friends didn't kill each other, no matter what the other had done … or did they? But they weren't even her friends anymore … she had no friends, she was all alone – she had betrayed the only friends she ever had, and now, she was on her own.

She was alone in the world, for traitors never belonged anywhere. Traitors never found solace on either side. Hated by one side for turning to the enemy, and hated by the other for having once been an enemy … could she honestly think she would be considered an equal on the Dark side? Not as long as she remained a _Mudblood_. And that was what she would remain all her life. At that thought, Hermione wept even harder.

Suddenly, she felt strong arms wrap around her shoulders, turning her around, pulling her closer … "Why do you cry, Hermione?" asked the drawling voice of the man who had convinced her to join Voldemort.

Hermione closed her eyes, relaxing in his embrace.

She was reminded why she had joined the Death Eaters. No, she wasn't alone. There was someone on the Dark side who cared about her, and that made all the difference … someone who loved her. She did belong in the Darkness, where she was loved …

His touch made her forget it all. What was it to her if everyone around her died, if she alone survived? She didn't care! They were _nothing_ to her! The Light side was nothing to her, as she was nothing to them. Everyone who was part of Order of the Phoenix was her enemy. Her fellow Aurors, Ministry … they were all her enemies. She was a Death Eater, she was on the Dark side and a loyal follower of the Dark Lord … and she would fight for her lover's side – _her_ side – without remorse, without guilt, without scruple … like she had once fought for the Light.

As an Auror, she had not hesitated to send Death Eaters to Azkaban – never wondering if they deserved it or not – because it had been her duty, because she was doing the right thing, because they were the enemy. And now, as a Death Eater, she would not hesitate to do the _right thing_ for the Dark side. She would not hesitate to kill her enemies.

"Do you truly regret joining our side?"

Oh, so he had known all along what was the cause of her tears.

"No, I don't," she admitted.

"_À_ _propos_², Hermione, that was an impressive bit of magic you cast into the sky."

"How did you know it was me?" she asked.

"Bellatrix came to the Dark Lord expressing innermost regret for failing to cast the Mark because she was – ah – '_too busy fighting those damned Aurors_'."

Hermione scoffed. "Too busy gloating over having eradicated them, more like," she corrected.

"I thought so. Bellatrix is _awfully_ predictable – anyhow, the Dark Lord sent me to rectify her blunder. Only when I arrived at the scene, the Mark was already scintillating in the skies above, uncharacteristically high and bright … you have heard, of course, that the _Morsmordre_ spell reflects the power of its caster – which is why it shines brightest when the Dark Lord himself is the one to summon it – and the Dark Lord seems to know, someway, that it was your work."

No, Hermione hadn't known that. It meant, then, that she was an especially powerful witch …

"The Dark Lord is very pleased with you, Hermione."

Which was a good thing, if surprising, because Voldemort was very demanding of his followers.

And from then on, whenever Hermione had thoughts of guilt, remorse or regret about becoming a Death Eater, Lucius was there to chase them away, to help her forget them, to remind her why she had joined the Dark side, to remind her that it was worth the sacrifices …

She was thankful for it; she was glad he had helped her through what was probably the most difficult time of her life. And as weeks passed, the moments of regret became less and less frequent, until they stopped altogether. Hermione no longer felt remorse. She had become a true Death Eater.

**-**

Lucius knew that she waited for him every night. She guessed that this had to be one of the nights when he felt like making her wait in vain. And it turned out to be fortunate, because she got another, more unpleasant visit.

She opened the door to see a wizard wearing the red robes of the Aurors standing on the threshold, a wizard with messy black hair and green eyes framed by round spectacles.

She felt a surge of annoyance at the sight of her former best friend. "Harry? What are you doing here? I thought I said you and Ron weren't welcome in my home anymore," she said crossly.

Harry barged inside without being invited to do so. His green eyes were flashing with anger and he glowered at her.

"Hermione, you know what?" Harry yelled, reminding her of the summer before their fifth year at Hogwarts, "YOU KNOW WHAT? RON WAS RIGHT ABOUT YOU!"

_What on earth? He can't have found out … can he?_ she thought fearfully. "Harry, what is your problem?" she asked steadily.

Harry appeared not to hear her. He started shouting like he did in fifth year, with a disturbing amount of anger and resentment and frustration. Hermione stepped back in alarm.

"ACTING SO BLOODY_ SUPERIOR_ JUST BECAUSE YOU'VE READ ALL THE USELESS_ BOOKS_ IN THE LIBRARY, HAVEN'T YOU, AND YOU JUST CONSIDER YOURSELF SO _CLEVER _–" Harry broke off, breathing heavily.

Hermione started to get angry as well._ No, he hasn't found out_, she decided. If he had, he would have mentioned it by now, but as the word _traitor_ hadn't yet left his mouth, she doubted it would. "What is _wrong_ with you, Harry?" she bellowed. "Has Ron finally convinced you to think his way?"

"You shut up about Ron!" he snarled in her face. "Ron is my BEST FRIEND! Ron has always understood me! While you – poking your nose into what didn't concern you, always bothering me about doing _homework_, as if I didn't have other things to do with my time –"

Well, that answered Hermione's question. Ron had somehow managed to make Harry see things the same way he did.

"Driving everyone crazy with your _warnings_, never listening when people tell you they don't need your snooty remarks! Do you even have an idea how annoying you were? Did you care how we felt when you never shut up about SPEW? Did you _think_ before you went threatening to tell us on to McGonagall? You didn't care!"

Harry's eyes were nearly popping out with rage. It seemed like he had been _dying_ to say these things for years.

"AND IN FIFTH YEAR, WITH YOUR _SAVING-PEOPLE THING_! BUT YOU WERE TRYING TO _HELP_ ME, WEREN'T YOU? ONLY IT DAMN WELL WORKED, DIDN'T IT? IT WORKED TO MAKE ME EVEN MORE ANGRY THAN I ALREADY WAS, WITH VOLDEMORT POKING AROUND IN MY HEAD, AND YOU JUST _HAD_ TO REMIND ME OF MY PAST MISTAKES, DIDN'T YOU, TO MAKE ME EVEN MORE DETERMINED TO GO! AND THAT'S WHY SIRIUS _DIED_!"

Harry glared at her, still breathing deeply, then turned away and started pacing up and down the room. He was too absorbed in his anger to notice that Hermione had _flinched_ at hearing him shout Voldemort's name, and that her hand flew automatically to her left forearm. This would have appeared strange to Harry, since Hermione had not had any problems about saying Voldemort's name since their fifth year at Hogwarts.

Hermione couldn't believe this. The nerve of him … was he blaming _her_ for Sirius's death?

Not that she had very been affected by it – no, she had not grieved like Harry and Professor Lupin. Sure, Sirius had been a nice person, despite his horrid lack of common sense, but unlike Harry, she had had no particular attachment to him.

Nevertheless, this time, Harry's jibe had hit home. Not in the way he meant it, of course, but still … _How dare he remind me of that? _thought Hermione._ It's all his fault – who does he think he is – damn you, Harry Potter!_

Harry would never know how much she regretted following him into the Department of Mysteries. Especially as of lately … no, Harry had no idea … she had always been good at keeping secrets – unless she chose to divulge them on purpose. Like she wanted to do now.

"How dare you?" she shouted, and Harry actually looked taken aback by the hysterical rage in her voice. "How dare you accuse me of all people, when I tried and fought to stop you the whole time – I even warned you not to touch that cursed prophecy – but did you listen to me? No! You ignored my warnings like usual, when I was looking out for _you_ the whole time! Instead, you dragged me into something I had no desire to be part of – oh, believe me, not at_ all _– where I almost died! Where were _you_ when Dolohov cast that curse? You were the reason I was there! But you were too busy looking out for yourself, that's what … you should be grateful that I didn't turn against you in the midst of battle!" Her voice dropped. "As I should have done. I regret it now … I regret it so much … see, Harry, you're not the only one with a guilt complex here. I do blame myself …" _But for what, you would never guess_, she thought.

She was speaking as though she was no longer aware that Harry was in the room. She seemed to be talking to herself. And to Harry, her words were so unexpected that it did not occur to him to ask _what_ it was that she blamed herself for. He would have had a shock … that he would get anyway.

But Hermione wasn't finished. "How dare you blame me for what your foolishness accomplished in fifth year, Harry Potter, when I _tried_ … I tried so _hard_ to make you see reason, but you weren't listening –"

"You tried to make me SEE REASON?" Harry yelled back, his anger returning. "Like I was some irrational CHILD, when you knew better than anyone what I had been through! But no, instead of suggesting something useful, you just had to show how much more you _knew_ and how _stupid_ I was! Why bother? After all, it's just naïve Harry, it's not like he'll understand anyway! Well, you know what, Hermione?

"YOU WERE NO BETTER THAN MALFOY, WITH YOUR MADDENING AIRS OF SUPERIORITY! _I HATE YOU!_"

It took Harry a few moments to register that Hermione was _laughing_.

_If only you knew, Harry_, she thought, _if only you knew._

"I would have thought you'd aimed to insult me, Harry, yet why are you complimenting me?"

"_What?_" said Harry, totally flabbergasted, as though Hermione was speaking a foreign language. No, actually, beyond the confusion, Harry was suddenly feeling a chilling sense of déjà-vu.

"Really, Harry, comparing me to a Death Eater?" Hermione calmly asked. Then, coming to a quick decision, she smirked. "You have no idea know how _right_ you are."

Hermione could stand it no longer. She had lost control. She could not believe she had once considered Harry a _friend_. If it wasn't for her knowledge of the prophecy and the fact that the Dark Lord alone could kill Harry – and vice versa – Hermione would have cast a killing curse at him. But she _so_ wanted to wipe that infuriating expression from Harry's face … _Why not?_ She could always Obliviate him afterwards … it was a good thing all Ministry officials were trained to modify the memories of Muggles – and it was just as well that the spell worked on wizards too.

"You're such a brave, noble creature, Harry Potter," she said softly, reaching out her _left_ hand (_That's odd, I assumed she was right-handed_, thought Harry) to ruffle his hair patronisingly, and accidentally-on-purpose throwing down her sleeve, baring her forearm up to her elbow, to reveal the Dark Mark imprinted in crimson on her creamy complexion. Harry gazed at it for a moment and gave a yelp, jumping back as though he had been burnt.

Looking calm, Hermione waved her wand. Ropes shot from the end of her wand and wrapped themselves around Harry, binding him to prevent him from attacking her. Harry was too shocked to draw his wand in time.

"You see?" Hermione said triumphantly, "The Dark Mark. The Dark Lord's sign. You know what it is; you know what it means. And it's you and Ron who pushed me over to _them_."

The devastated expression on Harry's face was one she would remember forever … not in regret but in vindictive satisfaction.

"You are so brave, so righteous, so courageous … but also reckless and exasperatingly meddling. You accuse me of 'poking my nose' into what did not concern me, but what about _you_? Do you realise how hypocritical you are? Then again, I suppose hypocrisy is a trait to be expected from some Gryffindors … unfortunately, our old house wasn't always a model of tolerance. And you, Harry, are a true Gryffindor."

"Unlike you!" shouted Harry.

"I've admitted it long ago," she said calmly. "I have knowledge – and you know the Muggle saying, '_knowledge is power_'. I have knowledge, and I have power. I used to value friendship and bravery … but, as I am sure you agree, Harry, _love is the strongest force of all_."

"If anyone's a hypocrite, it's you! Voldemort wants to destroy Muggles … how could you, a Muggle-born, join him? And where's the goodness of your heart gone?"

"I renounced it … for love. Oh, Harry, it's a negligible sacrifice for such a high goal."

Harry looked at her in aversion that quickly turned into confusion. Hermione ignored him.

"The Dark Lord tells us that there's no good and evil, that there is only power and those too weak to seek it …" she broke off noticing Harry's expression. "I see you've already heard it. Yes, he does repeat that little mantra quite often, doesn't he? But personally, I believe in a different version of that slogan. Do you know what that is, Harry? My personal credo, the rule I live by?"

Harry shook his head, looking disgusted at hearing her talk like a Death Eater.

"There is no good and evil, there is only love and those too foolish to accept it," declared Hermione earnestly. "You agree, don't you?"

For a second, Harry's lips quirked in a reluctant smile. Hermione knew he understood, even if he didn't approve of – or even understand – her actions. Too bad he would not remember this conversation.

"Hermione, you _are_ brave, no matter how much you deny it. You were sorted into Gryffindor for a reason, weren't you? You always were a very unique witch. I guess only you could go over to the Dark side and still be a Gryffindor."

Hermione looked thoughtful. "Yes, I suppose … I remember what Hagrid once said, in our first year – I'm sure you're remembering it too – '_when a wizard goes over ter the Dark side, there's nothin' and no one that matters to 'em anymore_'." Hermione did a very good, if somewhat mocking, imitation of Hagrid's dialect. "He was wrong; he knew nothing of the dynamics of the Dark Order …"

"Hermione, where have you learnt to speak like that?" Harry asked, looking disgusted. "So, uh, high-class."

"From _him_, of course … he says I'm unique too, you know …"

Harry finally asked _the_ question. "Er, who is he, then? Who's your lover?"

"Does the phrase _'fraternising with the enemy'_ ring a bell?"

"So it's Krum again?" That sounded like something _Ron_ would say. Then again, Harry _was_ acting very much like Ron today …

"No, no, not Viktor. This time, it's truly an_ enemy_ …" Hermione trailed off with a mysteriously triumphant smirk that, in Harry's opinion, looked oddly out of place on her face.

"You mean a …" Harry's voice grew faint. He couldn't say the words, because saying them would mean admitting it. To say them would make it _real_.

Hermione did it for him. "A Death Eater, yes."

Suddenly, from a distant memory, Harry heard Hermione's voice speak in his head: _You … this isn't a criticism, Harry! But you do … sort of … I mean – don't you think you've got a bit of a – a – saving-people thing?_

And then another voice, colder and much more confident – like Hermione spoke now – echoed her words as though to back her up. _Potter … He has a great weakness for heroics; the Dark Lord understands this about him._

Another of Hermione's comments, also from the day Sirius died, came back to Harry: _But Harry – what if your dream was – was just that, a dream?_

And as a cold echo, a drawling voice reiterated Hermione's words once again: _It's time you learned the difference between life and dreams, Potter._

Harry glanced up at Hermione's face, meeting brown eyes that had always seemed so warm, so kind – but now they were cold and mocking, as was the haughty smirk on her face.

And in one terrible moment, Harry understood.

His face lost all colour as he understood it all. From the cruel way Hermione had taunted Ron during their last confrontation ("Not that you have anything to bet, Ron Weasley – even with a well-paid job, you are as poor as your crazy, Muggle-obsessed father!") to the attitude she had adopted at work during the past month – haughty and overconfident, and always so unconcerned … it also explained the expensive fur coats she had started wearing recently, always coming up with vague responses when Ministry witches admiringly asked where she had purchased them (and with what money – the Aurors weren't paid _that_ much, and Hermione should never have been able to afford such luxury) … At once, everything made sense.

Then Harry's memory carried him all the way back to the Quidditch World Cup, prior to their fourth year at Hogwarts. He had seen Lucius Malfoy stare at Hermione, and she had _blushed_. Harry had interpreted her emotion as indignation. But Harry knew he had always been rubbish at figuring out how a girl's mind worked, and he now suspected he had been wrong to make that assumption. No, it definitely wasn't anger or hatred that had made Hermione go red in the face …

Harry remembered a snatch of conversation that had taken place later that day.

_I'll bet you anything his dad _is_ one of that masked lot!_ Ron had said stormily.

_Well, with any luck, the Ministry will catch him!_ Hermione had retorted just as energetically, before hastily changing the subject. But Harry had incorrectly interpreted the inflection in her voice. What Harry had thought was hope … but it didn't quite sound like hope, now that he thought of it. Had it actually been worry?

And mere minutes later, Hermione had remarked:

_Mad, though, to do something like that when the whole Ministry of Magic's out here tonight! I mean, how do they expect to get away with it? Do you think they've been drinking, or are they just –_

That was back when Hermione still had faith in the Ministry, when she had naively believed authority to be almighty. But the fact was, she had actually _empathised _with the bunch of Dark wizards, and this time, there had been no way to mistake the concern in her voice. Harry had been too preoccupied, both about losing his wand and by the sound of footsteps they had just heard in the dark woods behind them, to think about it.

But now, everything was clear.

Harry stared at Hermione in absolute, complete, utter shock. If there was something that could traumatise him more than finding the Dark Mark on his best friend's arm, it was this.

"H – Hermione?" he croaked uncertainly, "what – how – _why_?"

Hermione raised her eyebrows. "Do speak clearly, Harry, as I unfortunately cannot manage to comprehend you."

"Tell me you aren't – no – I don't believe it … this cannot be true –" Harry was sputtering in disbelief. "But you're a Muggle-born!" he said finally, as though that was all he could find to say.

"So?" Hermione said casually. "The Dark side knows to make exceptions, Harry. Our Lord himself is a half-blood …"

"NO! This cannot be!" shouted Harry in denial.

She thought his reaction was rather funny. "But it is. Indeed, I am perfectly aware of what you have just realised – and for once, you are making proof of an intelligence I had not expected from you."

Harry looked aghast. "Hermione, _shut up_! I can't stand it … to hear you speak like that – _you disgust me, as does _he_! First you join Voldemort, and now this? I never thought you would sink so low!_" he yelled.

Hermione scowled irately. "How _dare_ you – filthy half-blood –"

"Now you sound like Bellatrix Lestrange."

"Yes, Bellatrix and I have much in common … we are quite alike, aren't we? We are the only women in the inner circle, and we both became Death Eaters for similar reasons … oh, and _Potter_? Just so that you know, I joined the Dark Lord _after_ 'this', as you so eloquently say," Hermione said, smirking.

Harry bared his teeth in hatred. Hermione was sure he would have attacked her if he weren't restrained.

But Hermione had had enough. She raised her wand. "_Obliviate!_"

Harry's face suddenly went blank; the hateful expression disappeared. He looked utterly confused as Hermione removed the ropes that restrained him.

She knew Memory Charms could be broken by a powerful wizard, but to do so broke the mind irreversibly. And she knew Dumbledore would never do such a thing – the righteous old wizard would never sacrifice his precious Golden Boy's sanity for a piece of information.

"Hermione, what happened?" Harry asked in bewilderment.

"No idea. I just came in to find you like that, on the floor … what happened, Harry?" she countered.

"I don't know, one moment I was standing outside on your porch and the next I just wake up here, wrapped up in these things –" Harry motioned to the shredded ropes now lying on the floor. "Must've been a prank … or maybe some Death Eater's attempt to kidnap me went wrong …"

"Why are you here anyway, Harry?"

"Oh, that! Well, I've just been at The Burrow and Mrs Weasley asked me to tell you … er, the usual, you know. She's invited you to the family Christmas party."

Mrs Weasley had always been nice to her … except when she had thought Hermione was Harry's girlfriend and had cheated on him with Viktor. So, in reality, Mrs Weasley only liked her because she was her _dear_ Harry's friend. No, Hermione would rather spend Christmas alone than with such people, not to count that Ron would be there, and unlike Harry, Ron's hatred for her had not been erased from his memory.

**¹** _Au revoir_ means goodbye in French.

**² **_À propos_: by the way


	10. A Family Conversation

— CHAPTER TEN —

_**A Family Conversation**_

"We have a long-established tradition when it comes to observing Christmas. Every year, a festive gathering attended by all supporters of the Dark Lord and their families takes place at the manor. Your presence is expected at this event, Hermione."

"But that would mean revealing my identity to everyone! The Dark Lord said I am not to compromise my position –"

"The Dark Lord never told you explicitly to hide from _trustworthy_ members of the community, and believe me, the selected company I invite to the manor is nothing less of trustworthy. It is up to you whether you wish to take the risk … however, since the _traitor_ has been unmasked and dealt with, I truly do not see why you would not reveal yourself to them. Many are already aware of your identity, having met you at raids … I would strongly appreciate it if you were to attend this event, Hermione."

Hermione looked into her lover's grey eyes. How could she refuse? She would do anything for him. She would do anything to please the man she loved. And he knew what was best for her, anyway. She nodded.

Lucius had expected nothing less. He continued:

"A social event like this one requires formal wear. Buy yourself a dress – I would recommend Madam Malkin's shop – choose something appropriate for the occasion. Bear in mind that all guests present will be dressed their best and will judge you by your attire. I do not wish you to arrive in an off-the-peg set of dress robes."

"But I would never be able to afford – the Aurors aren't paid that much –"

"Good Lord, Hermione, what did I say about not being '_able to afford_' items? My mistress will not be deficient in gold like some flea-bitten Weasley!" he said aggressively. "Tell them to take the money from Gringotts vault number sixty-nine."

Had he just given her the number of the Malfoy vault? This was like giving someone the number of your credit card in the Muggle world. Wizards could buy anything, to an unlimited amount of money, and pay just by giving the number of their vault to the salesperson … Hermione couldn't believe this.

"But –" she started.

"Be quiet, Hermione," he said coldly. "When will you understand that with your – ah – status, money is never a problem? Now, I expect you to wear nothing less than the finest dress you can buy, regardless of its cost. _Do not argue with me!_"

Lucius had never failed to scare her when he was angry. In her second year, she had been impressed and scared by the fury in his eyes when Mr Weasley had tackled him in the bookshop. His eyes had been almost glowing with wrath… it had been like seeing an enraged king, and Hermione had shivered at the mere thought of being the object of that anger. Her parents had been shaking in fright, and Hermione herself been far from trembling. That had been her first glimpse of Lucius Malfoy's violent temperament, and knowing how much he disliked Muggle-borns, she had feared had him deeply from that day on.

And she still did, occasionally. Especially when he acted like this.

"Of course," Hermione said meekly, cowed by his sudden display of irritation. "Of course … my Lord. It was stupid of me to argue with you, especially on such an insignificant subject. Please forgive me."

She chose to refer to him by his title in an attempt to calm him down. He seemed to have taken her disagreement personally; he thought she was defying him, but that had not been her intention. No, she was just, er, taken aback by his generosity.

"You should be aware that mere words will never suffice, Hermione," he said, but the anger had drained from his eyes.

"You know it's not mere words, Lucius." She wavered for a moment, then continued bravely, "I don't know why, but … I want to prove it to you. To prove that I mean it … it's right, isn't it?"

"It is indeed."

With a gentle but imperious gesture, he tilted Hermione's head so that it rested against his shoulder. He smiled into her eyes.

"You truly do know how to placate me …" He kissed her hair. "Narcissa would have started shouting by now … she never does learn the lesson … in fact, any other woman would have been affronted. But not you. I have always known that you were different …"

She smiled back, answering, "I don't think your wife understands you. And she's a Black and you know what they're like – look at Bellatrix. She spent thirteen years in Azkaban for a stupid mistake – staying at the scene of the crime to _gloat_ – and she still does the same thing. She still hasn't learnt not to wait for the Aurors to arrive. The Blacks are known for their foolhardiness, aren't they?"

When had Hermione started judging and condemning those around her? Since when did she shamelessly express contempt towards others? _When had she started acting like a Malfoy?_

Actually, she had always done so. During her seven years at Hogwarts, she had proven time and again that she could be condescending and overconfident. She had never paid much regard to the opinion of those she considered intellectually inferior, such as the oddity personified by Luna Lovegood. And in her fourth and fifth years, she had felt such delightful power when she had blackmailed Rita Skeeter, not that that woman hadn't deserved it … and she had always been a good liar in the instances when she didn't consider it _wrong_ to lie – sometimes people were better off when left in the dark. Yes, Umbridge had been right about one thing: what they _did_ know could hurt them, but what they didn't could not.

**-**

Just as Hermione had expected, Fudge made his Junior Assistant, Percy Weasley, the temporary replacement of Madam Bones. Percy had always had an interest – and a talent – for law, and Hermione had no doubt that he would do well as Head of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement. But Fudge insisted that it was only a temporary replacement until the Minister found a more suitable candidate. Preferably someone who actually _worked_ in the department.

Percy still hadn't 'rejoined' his family. Whenever he met his father in the corridors of the Ministry, they would acknowledge each other with a nod, but they never talked. Percy's family had been a disappointment to him; he had always been in the shadow of his brothers, and now that he had the chance to be independent and act as he wished without being limited by his family's expectations, he preferred to keep his distance from them. You see, Percy's family had never understood his ambition – just like Hermione's friends had never understood hers.

When Percy had turned against his family, in Hermione's fifth year, she had stayed silent when the others raged about him. Hermione had understood him. The things he had said to his father, no matter how hurtful they must have sounded to Mr Weasley, especially when coming from his own son, were true. It _was_ Arthur's obsession with Muggles that had prevented him from advancement at the Ministry.

Percy had always looked up to his father, and he had worked so hard because he wanted to earn some money for the family. Percy had grown up in poverty, but he didn't want to stay poor all his life. He had wanted to get a good job so that he could bring the Weasley name back into esteem. Everyone knew Arthur Weasley was paid so little because his somewhat – extreme – liking for Muggles wasn't appreciated at the Ministry. And Hermione could understand that, too. Sure, it wasn't Arthur's fault that he was a bit _mad_ about Muggle contraptions, but she could imagine how annoying his co-workers must find it.

And Percy had tried to climb the social ladder – but he had found his father's reputation following him everywhere. Everyone would look at his red hair, hear the name _Weasley_, and their opinion of him was already made. Their whispers followed him everywhere he went: _no money;_ _son of that disgraceful Muggle-lover …_ there was nothing worse than to be judged on who your _parents_ are and not who _you_ are – Hermione, a Muggle-born, knew that all too well.

When he finally got a decent job with sizeable wage, his family's reaction had been a huge disappointment for Percy. Instead of the praise and support Percy strived for, his father had given him a lecture on how _bad_ it was that he had been promoted, because Fudge was trying to use him to spy on his family, as his family was part of some secret society led by Dumbledore and Percy had never been told about it.

Percy had realised his family did not trust him. And he had told them the truth. The fact that they were so poor _was_ because his father couldn't control his Muggle obsession at work. Percy had not thought up those things to hurt them – no, he had been objective, and he had said the entire truth. Then his father had shouted at him that he was a disappointment to the family and that he should apologize – for what? For saying the truth? Out of sheer defiance and courage, Percy had refused.

Hermione knew all this because she had always got along well with Percy, except when she had been defending house-elf rights too adamantly, and at the Ministry, they talked occasionally during the coffee break. And Hermione knew what it was like to have disappointing parents.

When Hermione had first told her parents about her intention to become an Auror – and explained as much as she could _what_ an Auror was – her parents had not been too happy, nor had they expressed strong opposition. They didn't fully understand what Aurors were, although Hermione had told them they were the wizarding version of Muggle police, tracking and hunting down criminals, only with a lot more prestige to the job.

Andrew Granger and Gladys Puckle had both been top of the class at the prestigious University of Manchester School of Dentistry, which was rated as the finest dental teaching establishment in the UK. Hermione's father had come to the so-called 'Knowledge Capital' to study dentistry and then come back to his native London to establish his own practice. That was where he had met Hermione's mother, who had been born in Manchester, and by the time they graduated, they had decided to get married, move to London and found a joint practice. And that was what they had done.

Naturally, Hermione had been expected to follow her parents' example by becoming a dentist or a doctor. They would accept nothing less of their daughter. But as their daughter turned out to be a _witch_ … they had even asked her to return to the Muggle world and attend Muggle university once she was out of Hogwarts, but Hermione knew she could never be happy in a world that was not her own. She was a witch and _her world_ was the wizarding community, not the world where her parents came from.

And she had told them all this in a heated argument about her career plans. They had conceded by telling her to become a Healer, if that was what wizard doctors were called. But Hermione had never fancied medicine. Even before she had received her Hogwarts letter, she had never wanted to work in the same field as her parents. Of course, out of fear of disappointing them, she had never said so. That was why she had always studied so hard: because her parents would be disappointed if she, the daughter of two top-of-the-class students, had less than perfect marks.

But Hermione had already chosen her future career, and for once, she was ready to pull it through even if her parents did not agree with her decision. In the end, once Hermione had described the glory and respect the Aurors received, once they had understood that in her world, the Aurors were the _elite_ of the society, her parents had grudgingly told her they were 'glad' and 'hadn't expected any less' of her.

Resentment filled Hermione every time she thought of her parents. Mum and Dad had always had such high expectations for her … and they never understood. They had never understood it when she was tired and wanted to _rest_ instead of studying; to them, time that wasn't spent studying or working was _wasted time_.

It had been at least six months since Hermione had last seen her parents, and a few months since she had last owled them. _Should I pay them a visit?_ she wondered. As a Death Eater, she was not supposed to socialize with Muggles. And she didn't really want to, either. But it would not be a bad idea to talk to them just this once. After today, she would not contact them anymore. She was a witch; they were Muggles – and the two weren't meant to be friends, no matter what Arthur Weasley believed on the subject.

She would visit them … for the last time. She had to learn not to care about what they thought anymore. And she would do just that. She wanted to see how they would react to their daughter becoming one of 'those foul, evil murderers'. And this would be the last time she _fraternised_ with Muggles. She was a Death Eater, and she had no choice but to cut all her ties with _commoners_, even if these commoners were related to her by blood. She knew that the other Death Eaters would never accept her if they knew that she still kept in contact with her Muggle parents.

**-**

That evening, Hermione went into Diagon Alley directly after work. Even without her Auror robes in sight – they were mostly hidden by the silvery fur coat she was wearing – Hermione had no difficulty standing out in the crowd. She was well known in the wizarding world; her reputation as one of the best Aurors of the times extended even beyond the British coast, and her picture appeared in the _Daily Prophet_ regularly (and she was just as popular in _Witch Weekly_, judging by all the rumours they thought up about her being the girlfriend of either Harry, Ron, Neville, or, even more far-fetched, Zacharias Smith, who was also an Auror and one of the most paranoid and ruthless in the department).

Many people gave her friendly, grateful looks. Hermione supposed they felt safer doing their Christmas shopping, with the knowledge that they were in the proximity of an Auror who would defend them if Death Eaters were to appear on the street like last time. If only they knew what she truly was … a Death Eater in an Auror's clothes.

Hermione walked past Gringotts Bank and the intersection with Knockturn Alley; she passed Flourish & Blott's to arrive in front of Madam Malkin's Robes for All Occasions.

Just as Hermione was about to reach for the doorknob, the door opened and a distraught-looking witch dressed in a sumptuous coat of white fur stepped out – and collided with Hermione.

"Oh, _pardon!_" they both said at almost the same time.

"My fault; I didn't look where I was going –" Hermione's automatic apology halted abruptly as she stared at the woman, who was also, in turn, staring at her. Hermione's eyes narrowed as she recognised the woman she had seen briefly at the Quidditch World Cup, eight years previously. The woman possessed an imposing kind of beauty and her carefully styled hair shone like gold.

Meanwhile, the blonde woman was staring at the brunette who was wearing a silvery fur coat of a splendour that rivalled Narcissa's own white one. She looked vaguely familiar …

"Well, well, well … isn't it Narcissa Malfoy," drawled the witch in an uncanny approximation of Lucius.

Narcissa did a double take. Yes, this witch looked familiar … the profuse tresses of dark hair, the graceful silhouette …

And then she figured this was the same woman she had caught a glimpse of in the garden, when she had peered through the window late one night ...

"_You!_" Narcissa hissed, her pale blue eyes flaring with hatred, "_you!_"

The two witches glared at each other with equal loathing, though in Hermione's case, the hatred was nuanced with smugness.

"Oh, so you know me somehow, though I don't have the faintest idea how, nor do I care. So tell me, Madam, how have you been these days?"

The woman glowered at Hermione, who was scrutinizing her carefully. As she clenched her teeth and did not answer, Hermione continued:

"True, you do look a bit unhealthy … you display the symptoms of a severe lack of sleep," she remarked with a feigned concern that did not fool the older woman.

Hermione could not resist taunting her rival, knowing how infuriated the woman was and how hard it must be for her to maintain her collected, disdainful attitude. Her pale eyes were flashing furiously, and her upper lip was twitching. It appeared that Hermione had hit home with her 'lack of sleep' comment.

Hermione saw the woman reach for her wand. "Going to kill me, Madam? In plain daylight, might I add? In that case, perhaps I need to remind you that I am an Auror and a very skilled duellist …"

"Pardon?" the woman said sharply, her eyes widening in disbelief, "Did you say an_ Auror_?"

"Yes, I'm part of the Ministry's Advance Defence Force," Hermione said casually. This was the formal appellation of the Aurors working for the British Ministry of Magic.

The blonde woman was muttering something under her breath, and Hermione caught snatches that sounded suspiciously like, "_An Auror … cannot believe … ridiculous … insane …_"

"I'm in a hurry, Madam, but don't worry, you will see me at the Christmas Ball."

"What?" Narcissa said incredulously. How did this Auror even _know_ of the Christmas Ball? Was she going to set the Ministry on them?

"Really, Madam," said Hermione, lowering her voice, "I thought you were aware that all followers of the Dark Lord know of the event?"

"Followers of the Dark Lord?" repeated Narcissa, looking at Hermione even more disbelievingly. Hermione knew what must have been going on in her head: _Is she an Auror or a Death Eater? What is this supposed to mean?_

Then something snapped in Narcissa's blue eyes and her face gained a resolute expression. Throwing a look full of loathing at Hermione, the she turned and hurried into Knockturn Alley.

"Good luck," Hermione called after her, smirking.

Narcissa did not turn around, but she did hear the words, and she thought malevolently, _good luck to _you_ – you're going to need it._

**-**

A bell chimed as Hermione pushed the door open and walked into the shop. A short but solidly built witch dressed in mauve robes hurried over to her, smiling kindly. "Miss Granger, how nice to see you again!" The woman glanced at Hermione's fur coat, and her smile widened. "You look dazzling, my dear! Are you looking for a new uniform? Or maybe dress robes?" she asked quickly.

"Dress robes it is, Madam Malkin. Show me the best your shop has."

"Over here," the shopkeeper said, motioning Hermione to a variety of bright-coloured dress robes to the side of the shop. Hermione looked at the dresses; she ran a finger across some of the fabrics. This was where she had bought the periwinkle-blue dress she had worn to the Yule Ball, yet she was sure none of the dresses on display would fit Lucius's expectations of 'the finest dress you can buy'. She surely had to order a custom-made one.

"Excuse me, Madam Malkin, but you do not seem to have understood my query. I want a personalized dress of the finest kind, not a run of the mill, low-priced one."

The shopkeeper seemed to understand instantly; in fact, it looked like she had been _waiting_ for Hermione to admit she was ready to pay a substantial amount of money. "Oh, of course, just a moment," Malkin said, disappearing into the back of her shop.

The woman came back with an assortment of decidedly more extravagant garments. "Here," the witch said respectfully as she laid out a dozen dresses on the counter before Hermione, "these are the best in stock. Choose one you like and we'll tailor it for you."

Hermione looked at the dresses. One, made of red satin, caught her eye. There was another of gold brocade, and a third one was pure white velvet. Hermione stood there, thinking quickly. No, as appealing as these colours may look, they were too _flashy_, and she doubted that was the style Dark witches would wear to a party reserved to supporters of the Dark Lord. Nor would it be a good idea to stand out by being dressed in the colours symbolic of Gryffindor House. Besides, these colours were so bright that Hermione herself would fade behind them, and she would have preferred a classical, more reserved sort.

The experienced shop owner noticed Hermione's uncertainty. "Can't choose, dear? Let me help you. In this one –" she gestured to the red satin, "you will appear slimmer – not that you need it. The golden one harmonizes with your hair very nicely –"

How was Hermione supposed to tell shopkeeper that she wanted a dress appropriate not for a Ministry event or a party at the Weasleys', but for a Death Eaters' Ball?

"Well, it's just … these are not really the type – I mean … that is to say –" _Stop. Lucius Malfoy trusts you enough to give you the number of his vault, and here you are acting like some awkward girl who can't even tell a shopkeeper what she wants to buy! Hermione, THINK! How would Lucius have acted in this situation?_

Her pause lasted less than a second. True, she had always been a quick thinker …

She smiled faintly at the shopkeeper, but it was not an embarrassed smile. It was a smile of confidence and smugness. "Excuse me, but do you have anything more traditional? It is not exactly a Ministry party that I will be attending, and such flamboyant colours might be … less than appreciated in those particular circles of society."

Merlin, she really was turning into _him_. She was aware of the effect this attitude produced on people: it made them feel inferior. And she had to admit it was _fun_ – as long as she was the one mocking them, not the other way around. She had secretly found it enjoyable, the effect she used to have on her classmates when showing off how much more she knew than they.

Madam Malkin looked carefully at the young woman. There was something different about Miss Granger, she was starting to notice it … in fact, the polite girl who had come to her shop regularly to buy Hogwarts robes had never shown open boredom, or impatience, before. There was an air around her that was almost _intimidating_. And what could she possibly mean by 'those particular circles of society'? The shopkeeper realised this client spoke somewhat like her previous customer. Madam Malkin often had customer who were obviously Dark wizards and witches, and this was the kind of thing they asked for. But Granger was an Auror and friends with the Weasleys, so why would she suddenly want a _darker_ style?

There was definitely something dodgy going on. But as shopkeeper, it was not her job to ponder that. She did not want to lose a customer, especially one who was prepared to spend a substantial amount of money. Therefore she said, "Of course, if that is what you mean … this might take longer than expected, but don't worry, we'll find something suitable for you."

And she collected the dressed from the counter and disappeared into the stockroom behind the shop again. She returned carrying a handful of darker, more classical dresses, in navy blue, dark green and black. "Here … blue contrasts well with your eyes …"

But it was a forest-green dress that caught Hermione's eye. It was floor-length, sleeveless, and made entirely of velvet. The perceptive shopkeeper, noticing Hermione's admiring gaze, clapped her hands. "Excellent choice, Miss Granger, excellent choice! Green compliments your hair and eyes beautifully, and the dark fabric will make your skin tone stand out nicely … you have very good taste, Miss Granger."

"Alright, if you are going to fit it for me …"

Madam Malkin took out a measuring ribbon from her pocket. The thing was obviously magical, as it nearly _attacked_ Hermione as soon as it came in contact with her. It wound itself around her shoulders, then her chest, her waist, her hips, and most unpleasantly, her neck. But the ordeal was over fairly quickly, and in a few minutes, the shopkeeper had noted all Hermione's measurements on her clipboard.

"The custom-made dress will be delivered to you on Friday. That will be eight hundred twenty-five galleons and six sickles."

_Oh dear. _Eight hundred galleons? That dress probably cost more than the entire Weasley house. Judging by the fact that Hermione had bought her fairly decent house in London for 2,000 galleons … this dress cost a fortune. But then, Lucius wouldn't be able to accuse her of buying something _cheap_ …

The shopkeeper was probably expecting Hermione to pay in cash, but alas, she was in for a surprise. Or more like a nasty shock.

Hermione leaned over the counter. "Take the money from Gringotts vault sixty-nine," she said in a low voice.

The shopkeeper's eyes went wide. Her previous customer had said the same thing … the same number. And she had heard that phrase too many times not to remember to which family vault sixty-nine belonged. Madam Malkin was startled out of her musings when her customer asked in a slightly annoyed voice,

"Is there a problem?"

"N – No, no, Miss Granger, o – of course not," said the sturdy woman, still looking shocked. "You'll need to sign this form to … to finalise the purchase."

Hermione took the quill the shopkeeper was offering her. She hesitated for a single second before scribbling _Hermione A. Granger_ in her usual neat script on the bottom of the transaction record.

**-**

Hermione rang the doorbell of the Grangers' London home. Once. Twice. Nothing. No light, no sound. _They must be out_, she thought. Well, in any case, she wasn't going to wait outside in the cold until they arrived. She glanced around to check that no one was looking, then pulled out her wand. "_Alohomora,_" she whispered.

The door opened with a loud _click_. Hermione walked inside, shutting the door behind her. Here she was, breaking like a burglar into her parents' house.

Hermione turned to the moving, talking, magical portrait of herself hanging on a wall in her parents' sitting room. The picture had been taken shortly after her seventh year at Hogwarts. "Where are they?" she asked her younger self, not bothering to keep the now customary coldness out of her voice.

The magical picture spoke in Hermione's voice – or at least, what _used _to be her voice, tiny and uncertain. "Mum and Dad are at the clinic. They've … sort of … been having an overload of work for the two past weeks –"

Hermione was bored with her former self's chitchat. She had no interest in some Muggles' life, even if those Muggles were her parents. "Ah, and when will they arrive?" she cut in.

"Um… not before eight, I think. You … you look _different_," remarked the portrait, looking at her carefully.

Meaning, in an hour. _Oh, well._ Hermione, while waiting for her parents to arrive, decided to have a bit of fun.

"Who are you?" she asked her younger self.

The teenage Hermione in the picture stared uncomprehendingly. "I am you, don't you know that?"

"Really, you think you are me? Well, we'll see if you are." Hermione laughed cruelly. "Once again, _who_ are you?"

Still looking puzzled, the portrait answered: "Hermione Granger, Muggle-born witch, Gryffindor, future Auror ..." Then, finally catching up with the game, she added, "And who are _you_?"

Hermione glanced mockingly at the naive girl she used to be. She answered in an emotionless tone: "Hermione Granger, Death Eater." To reinforce her point, Hermione pulled up her sleeve and raised her left arm, showing the glittering crimson mark to the portrait, thoroughly amused by the horrified look in the eyes of her former self.

Her image gasped.

"Now, do you still believe you are _me_?"

The girl in the picture was too shocked to respond. "B – but w – why?" she asked, genuinely baffled.

"You cannot fathom why I joined the Death Eaters … and yet, you _have been_ me. No, it is the truth, do not deny it … I see that spark of mystery in your eyes … a spark I had first noticed in the mirror late one evening, when I had ran off to hide in the prefects' bathroom … do you remember?"

After the disastrous escapade to Hogsmeade at the end of their seventh year and the Death Eaters' failed attempt to kidnap Harry, the Golden Trio had made their way back to Hogwarts accompanied by a dozen witches and wizards from the Order. After a visit to the hospital wing, where Madam Pomfrey had insisted that Ron stay for the night, Harry and Hermione had been told to go to their dormitories and not leave the school for the whole weekend by Professor McGonagall, who had somehow been alerted to the whole situation.

But instead of going to the girl dorms where she would have had to face Lavender and Parvati, Hermione had snuck out of the Gryffindor common room. She had wanted to be alone. As Head Girl, she had been allowed to patrol the school at night, so the usual curfew did not apply to her. She had locked herself in the prefects' bathroom, where she spent most of the night thinking. But catching a glimpse of herself in the mirror, she had been taken aback by her reflection. Never had her eyes appeared so large, so dark, or so deep. Something subtle had transformed her.

And from that day on, that indecipherable mist, that look of mystery had never left her eyes. _Even – especially – now_, Hermione thought as she emerged from her memories – and by the expression on her younger self's face, she wasn't the only one reminiscing.

"Have you ever known love?" Hermione suddenly asked the portrait. Seeing her younger self about to nod, knowing exactly what she was thinking, Hermione elaborated, "No, do not mention Lockhart or Viktor. I don't mean some fleeting teenage infatuation but true love … love that would make you give your life for him … love for which you would gladly betray all you ever knew, even your own _blood_, because _he_ desires that you do so … love that does not fade with time …"

A fervent light flared in the present-day Hermione's eyes, which puzzled the portrait, but she knew it wouldn't take too long for it to grasp the meaning. Hermione had always been clever. "Tell me, have you known such love? _Have you_?"

"I … I don't think so, no. But what does this have to do with –"

"You _think_ not. But you hesitate, don't you?" She started piercingly into her younger self's innocent brown eyes – or perhaps not so innocent. "Deep down, you know the truth. You refuse to admit it to yourself … it's unacceptable; it's unthinkable … come on! Why did you refuse Ernie's proposal?"

Ernie Macmillan, the pompous Hufflepuff prefect, had been named Head Boy in the same year as Hermione was Head Girl, and he had asked her out. They had been dating through seventh year, and after the Leaving Feast, Ernie had told Hermione how much he loved her and asked her if she would marry him. Hermione had refused, not quite knowing why.

She saw her portrait's eyes cloud over in reminiscence again. She remembered too. Hermione had never forgotten that conversation.

"Hermione, I was so worried when I heard you were attacked … Hermione, you know how much I love you, right?" Her boyfriend, Ernie Macmillan, had asked.

She had nodded mutely. Attacked, huh? That wasn't exactly the word she would have used to refer to that incident, but then again, she had preferred to let Ernie think whatever he wanted. Never, ever had she told a soul about what had truly happened that night.

"Hermione, will you marry me?"

She had been taken aback, to say the least. She had no intention of making a commitment so early in her life. If Ernie had at least waited until she finished her education, until she got a job … perhaps –

But at that precise moment, Hermione had known, somehow, that she would never accept. Not now, not ever. Her entire being had been strangely revolted at the very idea of becoming Ernie's – or anyone else's, for that matter – wife. Repeatedly, mercilessly, a firm, strict _no_ had resounded in her head. The very idea – it had felt so very, inexplicably _wrong_. It had felt like going against destiny, as though by merely considering Ernie's proposal, Hermione had opposed fate. It was a most weird thought, since Hermione had never believed in fate. Well, at least not until she had found out about the prophecy and Harry's tragic destiny.

Hermione had always refused to admit the existence of a thing like fate – that was why she held no great esteem for the likes of Sybill Trelawney and Parvati Patil. There was no fate; everyone had choices in life – at least, everyone except the prophesised ones. The prophesised ones, like Harry, had a _destiny_, and it was something Hermione would never wish upon anyone. To have your life planned out for you before you were even born, to have no freedom, no choice as to what you wanted to do with your life, to be the tool destiny had chosen to use to accomplish its means – it was a horrible life, and she often wondered how Harry put up with it. But Hermione, as far as she knew, was not under a prophecy – she had the choices everyone else did; her actions weren't dictated by some Seer's words. Therefore, the idea of _fate_ was a very, very odd thought to Hermione.

"I'm sorry, Ernie," she had answered, "but I don't want to become a housewife. I have my career to think about, I want to become an Auror …"

"But Hermione, I won't stop you! You'll work if you want to, I've got nothing against that!"

She had stood there, thoughtful, for a few minutes. She had wondered what was stopping her. She liked Ernie, didn't she? _Didn't she?_ And Hermione had been surprised at the answer to that question, the answer that came unbidden, without a hint of disappointment nor regret. _No._ No, she did not love Ernie. Not anymore.

"I thought you loved me, Hermione," Ernie had said, his pride offended by her lack of answer. He had known she was hesitating; he had guessed her answer would be negative – why else would she have been dilly-dallying for so long?

Yes, she had loved Ernie. _Loved._ Past tense.

Back in the present, Hermione looked at the magical portrait of herself, painted when she had been barely out of Hogwarts. "Well? Why did you say no?"

"Because … because I realised I didn't really love him. Ernie deserved a girl who loved him … and who could give him an heir. By the way, what's become of him today?"

"He married Hannah Abbot shortly after Hogwarts, and he still looks at me with wounded eyes at Order meetings sometimes. Now, again, you – I – refused to marry Ernie Macmillan because …"

"Because I didn't love him, not really."

"And why didn't you? You did like him when he first asked you out, so what had changed by the end of the year?"

The young Hermione looked taken aback by the question. She paled slightly. "I – I don't know," she whispered.

"You're afraid to think about it …" The portrait shook her head quickly. But of course it was useless to argue with yourself, and even more so with an older, more experienced version of yourself.

Hermione smiled knowingly at her younger self. "You think I don't know? But _I am you_, child …" In reality, she wasn't so much older – only five years separated them – but she had changed a lot during those few years. And she had changed even more in the past couple of months. "You can't hide your secret from me. You hid it from your friends, your parents, the entire world … but you could never hide it from yourself. I _know_ why you – that is, I – declined Ernie's proposal. Because it felt wrong … because your heart belonged to someone else. Because another man had claimed you and you were his. In your dreams, you imagined things … you feared him, you hated everything he stood for, but you admired him because he was everything you could never be: pure-blood, rich, respected … and you _loved_ him."

"No!" the young Hermione, her face very pale, protested vehemently. Unfortunately, it sounded like she was trying to convince herself.

"Truth hurts, doesn't it? You loved him … I still do. It's so wrong, isn't? Yet at the same time, so _right_ … that glint of mystery in your eyes, it wasn't there before a certain incident in seventh year … are you still convinced you haven't known love?"

The eighteen-year-old Hermione blushed. Her older counterpart didn't. "One thing time has taught me is to accept what I can't change. To accept … and over the past few months, I have learnt to be _proud_, not ashamed. Do you still wonder why I joined the Death Eaters?" She smiled at her younger self and dropped her voice to a thoughtful whisper. "When _he_ asked me … I could never say no."

The Hermione in the picture breathed a tiny "Oh!" of realisation. "But – but Harry and Ron! How could you do that to them?"

Her face twisted in a grimace. "They got what was coming to them all along, the ungrateful prats!"

"But what about Mum and Dad? Doesn't that mean you've betrayed them too, if you're going around killing Muggles?"

"I haven't killed anyone yet. No one aside from the spiders I practiced on during Auror training. And didn't I tell you I've betrayed my own blood? I don't regret it. About the only thing my parents ever understood about Hogwarts was the notion of prefects, which is hardly enough to maintain a conversation. They are Muggles; they can't understand us."

The portrait stared at its original. "I think your … erm, _associates_ have influenced you a lot."

"Of course – oh, Mum and Dad are here."

The front door opened, and two thin, brown-haired people wearing coats walked in.

With the a lightness in her step that came naturally, Hermione left the sitting room and walked into the hall, appearing in their sight for the first time.

Mrs Granger let out a shriek. "_Hermione!_" she exclaimed, rushing over to her grown-up daughter and hugging her. She stood still, letting her mother kiss her on the cheek, but not hugging back. If her _associates_ could see her now … hugging a Muggle! Hell no. Death Eaters did no such things. And strangely enough, she felt no great affection towards this Muggle. They had grown apart with time, she supposed.

When her mother's hand came in contact with the soft, silvery fur around Hermione's shoulders, she let out a surprised exclamation. She pushed Hermione away, holding her at arm's length, and her eyes gleamed with something that looked like … _envy_? "Where did you get this, sweetie?"

"It looks so expensive!" Hermione's father added.

Hermione spoke for the first time. "It was a gift."

Mr and Mrs Granger looked slightly taken-aback at the careless response, so unlike their daughter. "What happened, sweetie? Oh, let's go into the lounge; I'll make you some tea. Or better yet, let's have dinner. We're starving."

**-**

The family felt sated as they left the round dining table Hermione remembered using every day when she was a child. Hermione had been very hungry – the last time she had eaten was lunch at the Ministry, after which she had gone shopping for the dress, and afterwards, she had Apparated directly to her parents' house without stopping at home to eat.

"Look, sweetie," her mother started, settling next to her husband on the couch in the lounge. Hermione took the armchair opposite. "You turned twenty-four in September. I can't imagine how you can stand it to be all alone in that house all the time. Aren't you weary of living alone? Maybe it's time to start looking … think about getting a family, maybe?"

Her father nodded, but keep silent as his wife continued enthusiastically, "I'm sure that nice red-haired boy – Ron – would be absolutely delighted. From what you've told us about him, I'm sure he's completely in love with you."

Hermione had to urge to throw up. Marry _Ron_? Yes, she knew Ron had had a crush on her for years. But really, it wasn't like she had ever liked him back!

"Mum, I would never marry Ron! There's no way I would be able to stand that moronic git in my house for longer than ten minutes! No, really – Mum, Dad, I mean it. Ron is an insensitive prat dumber than a – a broken toothbrush!" She had wanted to say 'wand', then realised they weren't familiar with wizarding culture and tried to make an analogy she was sure they would understand. "And you know I put my job first; you taught me to do that. I don't have time for relationships … I've got better things to do!"

Her mother looked scandalised. "But Hermione, don't you want a _family_?"

"You mean kids?" said Hermione, and pain flickered momentarily in her eyes. "Have you forgotten that I'm unable to have children? Have you forgotten that terrible surgery to remove my appendix when I was nine and what the doctor said about post-surgical complications?" _Some parents you are_, she thought sadly.

Her parents suddenly looked crestfallen. "Oh, sweetie, I'm sorry. I should have remembered –" her mother started.

Hermione cut her off. "Not that it's a problem. I've always thought children were annoying, and it's just as well that I won't contaminate _his_ blood with my Muggle one."

"How can you say that?" asked Mrs Granger, outraged.

"Whose blood?" her father demanded sharply.

Mr and Mrs Granger were clever people; Hermione had got that cleverness from somewhere, hadn't she? She had fully expected them to catch on, and she was only revealing her secret because she knew that her parents had no way of contacting the wizarding world. It wasn't like they had an owl, was it? While at Hogwarts, she had easily hidden what was happening in the wizarding world from them, that magic wasn't all glitter and fairy tales, that it could be _deadly_ …

Clever as they were, her parents still had no idea that there was a _war_ going on in the wizarding world and their daughter was in the middle of it. No, like Lucius said, they were good little Muggles who minded their business and whom no wizard considered worthy of attention.

"Well, actually … I'm presently in a relationship. But there's something you ought to know first …" She pulled up her sleeve to show them the mark.

Her mother gasped when she saw the image imprinted in scarlet on her daughter's skin. "What is _that_?" she and Dad asked together, horrified.

"Do you remember what I told you about a powerful Dark wizard who leads a group called the 'Death Eaters'?"

"You mean this … this _Voldemort_?" her father guessed.

"Yes, that's him. The Dark Lord. And this –" she gestured to the symbol on her forearm, then let her sleeve fall back down to cover it, "– is his sign. The Dark Mark. So, yes, this means that I have joined him. I'm one of _them_ now."

"But they're _evil_! They're murderers!" Mrs Granger exclaimed in disbelief. Her husband was also looking at their daughter in shock.

"You're mistaken," Hermione said calmly. "See us as an army fighting to improve our world …" Or that was what Lucius thought, and he didn't let her contradict him._ He knows a lot more about the wizarding world than I do, so he must be right …_

"Hermione," her father said loudly, "Stop acting so … so odd and big-headedall of a sudden!"

She bristled. If they thought they could insult her … no, she would not stand for it. "Odd? Of course I'm odd to you – I'm a witch and you're Muggles! And I'm terriblysorry, Dad, but I won't be ordered around by a Muggle, not when I am the mistress of one of the most powerful Dark wizards in all of Britain!"

"_Mistress?_" Gladys Granger whispered, "What do you mean the _mistress_?"

Hermione glanced at her mother, who was staring at her in some kind of indignant disbelief, then at her visibly furious father. It was then that Hermione realised, finally, that although these people were tied to her by blood, they weren't her family. No Muggle could be a witch's family, because Muggles just never understood. No, the Grangers weren't Hermione's true family.

The Death Eaters were her true family.

And a cruel desire to elaborate, to show them just how much she had changed seized Hermione all of a sudden. These two people had always told her that knowledge was power, but they would know that knowledge could also cause pain …

"Oh, you know what I mean," said Hermione. "He's the one who recruited me to the Dark side. He's got a wife … I don't care."

"Have we met him?" her mother asked cautiously, glaring warningly at her husband (who looked like he could barely keep his temper in check).

Hermione smirked. "Yes, you have," _and as I remember_, she continued in her head,_ he scared you quite a bit. Enough that you have never set foot into the wizarding world again._ "But he doesn't associate with your kind – no honourable witch or wizard does. It's called wizard pride, you know, we are not supposed to mingle with those lacking the gift of magic."

"But what about Mr Weasley? He was so kind to us …"

Oh, yes. Hermione remembered that encounter. She had never met a family with such a blatant lack of manners as the Weasleys. To start a fight in public … well, only a Weasley would do such a thing. Even Molly, who grew up in a respectable old family (the Prewetts) agreed with her on that point.

"Weasley, an honourable wizard?" Hermione let out a sharp laugh. "He worships everything Muggle as though … as though it were better than what our world has created… what a disgrace …"

"You sound like … like that horrid man in the bookshop …"

_Oh, Mum, if only you knew …_

She met the eyes of her own portrait and winked. "I do, don't I?"

Her parents noticed her glance at the picture on the wall, whose occupant looked pale but had an odd glint in her eyes. "This picture is amazing," Mrs Granger remarked suddenly, "she talks just like you ... she _is_ you ... it's like you're here with us all the time. Oh, the things your kind has invented ..."

Hermione remembered Arthur Weasley reacting similarly to Muggle appliances, and she thought, _yes,_ _Muggles should be in awe of magic, not the other way around_. Like in the time of Merlin when wizards had been admired and looked upon as particularly gifted heroes.

Two pairs of identical brown eyes met. Not so different, after all … all that set them apart was experience. Deep down they were the same, but one of them had been changed by life more than the other.

"What's that supposed to mean?" Andrew Granger asked, bewildered by the interaction between his daughter and her younger self. It looked almost like they were conspiring. But when he turned to look at the spot where his daughter had been, she was gone.

Hermione had Disapparated right from under their noses without them noticing, _without a sound_.

The portrait on the wall looked thoughtful. "How could I turn out this way?" she whispered.


	11. A Classic Death Eaters' Christmas

— CHAPTER ELEVEN —

_**A Classic Death Eaters' Christmas**_

Hermione stood in front of the floor-length mirror in her bedroom, looking at herself in her new dress. The dress had been delivered to her the day before in a box carried by five owls, and when she tried it on, she could not stop staring at her reflection. The dress clung to her like a second skin, with not a wrinkle, not a fold in it. The bodice fit perfectly; the neckline was low but not at all revealing, framing her chest elegantly. The long velvet skirt almost reached the ground, making her appear even slimmer than she was.

Today was the 24th of December. This would be the first Christmas in six years that Hermione would not celebrate with the Weasleys and Harry. She had politely declined Mrs Weasley's invitation to the party at The Burrow. She had written her an apologetic letter stating that she wanted to spend Christmas with her parents for once – it was, after all, a family holiday. And she hadn't lied in the last part: she _was_ going to spend the day with her family. Only it wasn't the kind of family everyone thought. No, it was another kind of family: the Death Eaters.

Slowly, she turned in front of the mirror. Yes, this dress was perfect; it brought out all the assets of her body. The long skirt swirled around her ankles like a dark waterfall, accentuating the narrowness of her waist.

The fabric of the dress was a very deep, dark shade of green, so dark it almost looked black, except in the spots where it reflected the light in a vivid green.

She hadn't used any potions to fix her hair. It had lost its tendency to frizz, except right after it had been washed and dried. She had tucked part of it into a bun on the top of her head, and she had managed to magically attach a silk flower (a golden rose) on her head by interweaving it through her brown tresses with some magically conjured golden threads. The rest of her hair flowed freely down to her shoulders, and Hermione had to agree with Madam Malkin: the forest-green fabric created a beautiful contrast with the chestnut shade of her hair. It had taken her three hours to fix her hair like this, but it had been worth the time.

Absorbed in the contemplation of her reflection, Hermione did not move when she heard a loud cracking noise somewhere in the house. The door to the room opened and closed; only as a draught ruffled her hair did she turn around, gracefully and unhurriedly, to face the only man whose approval mattered to her.

She looked at the not-so-unwelcome intruder who was leaning casually against the doorframe, gazing at her appreciatively. He was dressed in robes of black velvet with silvery snakes embroidered on them, the fabric contrasting with his snowy white skin in an almost otherworldly way. His luminous hair, with its golden sheen, and his glittering steely eyes added to the eerie, intimidating image.

He looked like the devil described in Muggle fables, albeit a terribly handsome devil … a personification of evil, which, in a certain sense, he was. The enemy of the Light side, one who commanded the demons of Hell and tempted people to sin … didn't all these characteristics apply to Lucius? The wizarding world's equivalent of Hell's demons, the Death Eaters, obeyed him … wasn't he the reason Hermione bore the mark of evil on her arm? Hadn't he corrupted her, turned her, a rule-abiding Auror, into a betrayer and a criminal?

Right now, Lucius looked more sinister than the scarlet-eyed, serpent-faced Voldemort, and as his cool hands rested on her bare shoulders, Hermione had the impression of being touched by the embodiment of evil. She trembled in delight and fear. The devil's mistress …

He spun her around to face him and Hermione closed her eyes as he leaned down to kiss her.

"You look enchanting, my dear," he drawled, brushing his cool fingers over the nape of her neck. "No, I will go further than that. You are highly beautiful in a dark fashion."

The young Auror smiled at the Dark wizard. "Thank you."

She turned back to the mirror and gave her reflection one last glance. She looked quite the Dark witch herself, mainly because the sleeveless dress did absolutely nothing to cover the mark on her arm. The crimson skull-and-snake tattoo was in plain sight, though Hermione saw no necessity to hide it from view now – her mere presence at the gathering would reveal her allegiance, and if Lucius thought it was safe … he knew these people better than she did, didn't he? The entire Dark side would be attending the celebrations, and perhaps she would be regarded as a hero or at least as someone _worthy_ …

"Ready to go? It is almost seven o'clock …"

"I'm ready," she said after a nervous final attempt to adjust her hair.

"Not quite," said Lucius. Hermione saw him pull something out of the pocket of his robes and a spark of green caught her eye. It was a pendant on a chain of gold, which he fastened around her neck. She stared at the gem's reflection in the mirror. It was a large emerald of the same deep shade of green as her dress, set in gold, and it sparkled magnificently against the whitish beige tone of Hermione's skin.

Lucius lifted the silvery fur coat resting on the back of a chair and placed it around Hermione's shoulders. "Now you are ready," he said lazily, grabbing her arm. With a _crack_, they were gone.

**-**

Hermione looked around. They were in front of the Malfoy mansion. The trees around the house had shed their leaves and a thin layer of snow covered the grounds.

"I need to ascertain that all is in order," said Lucius. "It is nearly seven; I suggest you employ the remaining time to socialise with the other guests." And he Disapparated.

Hermione walked up the path towards the grand house of white stone. Two-storey and at least sixty yards long, the building looked austere with its two round towers. She climbed the stairs to the massive double doors, in carved metal.

She pushed the doors open and walked into the entrance hall, a spacious rectangular hallway with oak-panelled walls and shining marble floor, partially covered by a carpet. A cluster of witches was gossiping by one of the half-dozen hall stands, where the guests were hanging various kinds of coats, hats and cloaks. The stands looked as though they had been made of cut-off giants' legs.

All her fellow Death Eaters were there, and for many, it was the first time she saw them without masks. There were also women she did not know, and a bunch of young children who ran around chasing each other. One of them slipped on the smooth floor and immediately started crying, "Mum! Muuuuuuuum!"

Hermione recognised many of her former Hogwarts classmates, mostly Slytherins and a few Ravenclaws. Theodore Nott, the quiet, stringy boy from Hogwarts, was chatting with Vincent Crabbe and Gregory Goyle – who were dressed in green dress robes like at the Hogwarts Yule Ball – while their parents stood to the side of the room. Goyle was accompanied by Millicent Bulstrode, the sturdy black-haired girl who had tried to smother Hermione in the duelling club in their second year, and Crabbe's escort was a girl Hermione did not know, though she recalled seeing her among the Slytherins at Hogwarts. None of them paid Hermione any particular attention, so she concluded they did not recognise her. Thankfully.

A thin, dark-haired man rushed over to Hermione. He was smiling nervously. "I haven't seen you here before. You are the Dark Lord's newest recruit?" he asked. Hermione nodded. "Rabastan Lestrange," he introduced himself.

"Just call me Hermione," she replied. "You are Bellatrix's brother-in-law, aren't you?"

"Yes, Rodolphus is my older brother."

Hermione removed her fur coat and hung it on one of the hall stands. Rabastan Lestrange's dark eyes went wide for a second, and he stared at her dress as if she were the most beautiful thing he had ever seen. Then he kissed her hand and declared:

"You look stunning!"

"Thank you, Mr Lestrange."

"Please call me Rabastan. Oh, the dining room is that way," he said, pointing in the direction of a crowded hallway on the left.

Hermione looked around in interest. The hallway was lit by old-fashioned torches and plaques on the walls contained what on closer inspection revealed to be goblin ears.

She recognised all the characteristics that were to be found in houses inhabited by Dark wizards, like Grimmauld Place. There was no mistaking the fact that this was the home of the Darkest wizard family in all of Britain, Hermione thought as the tried to inconspicuously join the horde of guests.

A couple caught her eye: a pug-faced woman in a frilly dress of pale pink satin, clinging to the arm of a young wizard with white-blond hair. Hermione grinned. Oh, she couldn't wait to see these two people's reaction when they would recognise her …

Hermione waved to the former Slytherin prefects. "Hi, Draco, Pansy! How have you been?" she called cheerfully.

"Do I know you?" asked a startled Draco Malfoy.

"Don't you remember me?" Hermione asked in a falsely offended voice. "We went to Hogwarts together, you know … I was Head Girl in my last year."

Draco sputtered. "_Granger?_ What – you, here – I never –"

He looked shocked beyond speech, while his wife gaped openly. Their expressions reminded Hermione of the moment at Yule Ball when they had seen her as Viktor's date.

Hermione smirked. "Your eloquence _astounds _me."

"Draco, what is that Mudblood doing here?" Pansy complained shrilly. "You haven't _invited_ her, have you?"

"Don't be ridiculous, Pansy. Of course I didn't invite her! Granger, I thought you were an Auror …"

Hermione smirked again. "I am," she said maliciously, while turning her left arm to show the mark on her inner forearm.

If there was anything that could shock Draco more than seeing Granger there, it was the fact that she was a Death Eater. But, then, he smirked too. _Take that, Potter_, he thought vindictively. "Don't tell me you've joined the Death Eaters. The Dark Lord would never accept a Mudblood into the fold."

"But he did. _He did_."

Draco's eyes went wide in surprise, but he couldn't argue with the facts. He had seen the Dark Mark on Granger's arm, and as there was no way to fake it … unbelievable as it was, the Mudblood was really a Death Eater. But her presence at the manor was quite a different matter.

"What are you doing _here_? You, a Mudblood … when father hears about this … a _Mudblood_ in the house …"

Hermione laughed at his disbelieving expression. "Your father knows me quite well, Draco … as a matter of fact, he personally asked me to attend this party."

"You're lying! Father would never allow a Mudblood into the manor."

"Ask him, why don't you?" said Hermione slyly.

Then she joined the flow of people through a corridor and lost sight of the former Slytherin prefects. She and the rest of the guests ended up in a big dining room with a high ceiling and a fireplace in which amber-coloured flames were crackling soothingly. The oak-panelled walls were decorated with sparkling magical frost; garlands of holly and ivy crossed the painted ceiling on which silver and green serpents were coiling and uncoiling restlessly in a pattern Hermione found hypnotising.

In the centre of the room was a very long dining table lined with silver plates and cutlery as well as goblets of solid silver emblazoned with the Malfoy crest. Candelabras in the shape of twisted serpents were aligned on the table at regular intervals, forming a screen of light that made it nearly impossible to communicate with someone on the opposite side of the table.

The hubbub of animated conversations mixed with the crackling of the flames in the hearth. There were so many people here that Hermione couldn't even estimate the number of guests, though it was over a hundred, she was sure. She glanced wistfully at where Lucius sat at the head of the table, his wife on one side and his son on the other, flanked by Bellatrix and that cow Pansy.

There were very few empty chairs, and Hermione chose one somewhere near the end of the table, surrounded by people she did not know. Many greeted her formally, asking her name; they all frowned and hissed quietly when she gave it, but after a glance at the Dark Mark openly displayed on her arm, their less-than-friendly looks made way to expressions of mild surprise, and after that, some even made casual conversation with her, mostly to ask about the activities of the Death Eaters.

Food appeared magically in the silver plates in a way reminiscent of Hogwarts. There was a wide variety of food, and along with the traditional English dishes, Hermione noticed several strange others that she knew were part of the French cuisine. The main meal, however, was the classic Christmas banquet. The oyster soup was followed by a roasted turkey. Its leftovers vanished magically, leaving the silver tableware as clean and shining as though it had never been used. The last course of the meal was the customary Christmas fruitcake, decorated with red berries and smelling of Firewhisky.

Hermione was pleasantly surprised to find here the aristocratic etiquette of the romantic Regency tales that had fascinated her during her childhood and of which she had often daydreamed being the heroine. It was a whole new society she never knew existed; a society she could never fully be part of. Every person she met would ask her name – her _family_ name – and she, figuratively, had none. They would be shocked, disgusted to find a commoner in their elite society; she would be unwelcome and an intruder …

The sign on her arm was her only salvation. Once she showed it to every single witch and wizard she was introduced to, they were obligated, albeit reluctantly, grudgingly, to pay her respect as one of the Dark Lord's chosen. But they still wondered, whispering, disbelieving that the Dark Lord would have admitted a Muggle-born into his trusted circle.

Moreover, Hermione was ignorant of the customs necessary to appear in this court of wizarding nobility, but thankfully she was at least well trained in formal dinner etiquette. These things did not differ between the Muggle world and the wizarding one, and Hermione's parents, rather cultured people themselves, had trained her well.

Soon enough dinner was over and the company stood up and moved through an archway into an even larger room with the same oak-panelled walls and high ceiling covered painted with of snakes. The marble floor shone like glass.

The drawing room had been transformed into a ballroom. Chandeliers hung magically in bursts of twinkling crystal from the ceiling. Ivy, mistletoe and silver streamers crisscrossed like a spider web overhead and there was a tall Christmas tree in one corner, decorated with silver accessories and covered in magical snow.

Several dozen small, round tables had been placed near the walls of the room. Hermione noticed that all the women sat apart at a few tables at one end of the room while the rest was occupied exclusively by men, and there was a single table for the children. Hermione approached the ladies' side slowly, wondering which group she ought to join. There was one table that seated young witches of Hermione's age, most of them former Slytherins she had known at Hogwarts, including Pansy Parkinson and Millicent Bulstrode. No, there was no way she was going to sit with them …

The remaining tables were mostly occupied by witches Hermione had never met. "Over here, comrade," Bellatrix Lestrange called out, waving to her from the table in the far left corner, which was occupied by eight middle-aged witches. "Sit with us."

Hermione did not like this, not because she minded Bellatrix's company – no, she rather liked the woman, actually, because they had so much in common – but rather because of who _else_ was sitting at the same table. She did not feel like spending an entire evening in conversation with the woman whom she hated most.

That woman did not appreciate the idea any more than Hermione did, judging by the irritated scowl on her face as she leaned over the table to hiss something at her dark-haired sister. Bellatrix appeared nonplussed, however, and as Hermione walked closer to them, she heard her mutter, "Don't see what your problem is, Cissy. You are being ridiculous … you haven't even met her yet."

Bellatrix, who looked impressive in her burgundy dress, motioned her sister to move over as she Conjured a chair between them and pointed a painted nail at it. Hermione sat wordlessly and the heavily lidded woman proceeded with the introductions.

"This is Pamela Parkinson," said Bellatrix in her usual hoarse tone, pointing towards the woman with a pug-shaped face sitting on her other side, who nodded. She looked like an older replica of her daughter, though her hair was much darker than Pansy's. "Helene Crabbe and Adara Goyle." Two brawny women nodded gracelessly.

"Miranda Bulstrode." Bellatrix indicated an aloof-looking, bulky witch, who nodded tersely. She had the same short, straight black hair as her daughter, hair that could have been mistaken for a cat's.

"Lyra Flint and Theresa Warrington." The mothers of the former members of the Slytherin Quidditch team inclined their heads as one.

"Sophie Rosier." A woman with sunken, vacant eyes inclined her head very slightly. Rosier … Hermione had heard that name at the Auror Headquarters. This was probably the widowed wife of Evan Rosier, a Death Eater who had been killed by Aurors the year before Voldemort's fall from power.

"Rosalind McAudrey." A slightly familiar-looking witch with curly black hair responded with a brisk nod. _McAudrey _… wasn't that the name of one of the members of the Wizengamot? In fact, all these women's surnames were familiar to Hermione. She had gone to school with most of their children.

"And this is my youngest sister, Narcissa Malfoy."

The two women glared at each other, tension hanging like a cloud in the air between them. Finally, neither wanting to be looked down upon by the others for lack of manners, Hermione nodded curtly at the hostess, who extended a hand to her. They shook hands briefly and one could be reminded of Sirius Black and Severus Snape making a reluctant truce upon Dumbledore's request. Only this wasn't even a truce but merely a show for the other guests.

For a moment, Hermione's eyes were drawn to the table on the other side of the hall where Lucius was in conversation with another Death Eater. As if sensing her gaze, he turned to meet her eyes over his wife's silk-clad shoulder, and she saw him raise his eyebrows upon seeing her choice of table. Hermione smiled before looking down into her empty goblet.

"This is Hermione Granger," Bellatrix said to the women around the table.

A few of the ladies glanced at each other uncertainly, then at the mark on Hermione's arm, and sniffed. She could easily tell what they were thinking. It wasn't every day they found a Muggle-born in their midst … Determinedly, she decided to ignore this less than friendly attitude.

"How do you do, Miss Granger?" the hostess asked in the customary greeting, with much visible disdain.

Hermione was about to answer 'Pleased to meet you, and you?' but stopped, remembering something her parents had once told her. According to them, the 'how do you do?' was a trick used in British upper-class society to distinguish those of high status from the commoners. A very proper person would not answer but merely repeat the question back. And Hermione realised it must be the same thing in the wizarding world, because she specifically remembered Fudge using that greeting at the Quidditch World Cup. Apparently, these signs of distinction were common to both Muggle and wizarding aristocracy.

Well, if this woman thought she could trap her like that and embarrass her for her ignorance of the nobility's ways … _Ha! We'll see!_

Tilting her head haughtily, Hermione replied in a tone just as indifferent, "How do you do, Mrs Malfoy?"

The blonde woman was starting to look livid. Hermione could have said something to infuriate her further, but there was no need – her mere presence, plus her deliberately affected mannerisms, seemed to incense the woman enough.

Bellatrix went on to elaborate. "Miss Hermione is the Dark Lord's newest recruit and –" Bellatrix lowered her voice to a dramatic whisper, "– a spy among the Aurors."

Several of the ladies gasped. Sophie Rosier's eyes flashed with hatred at the word 'Aurors'. "You are one of _them_?" she said sharply, staring at Hermione.

Hermione understood the woman's reaction. Many people on the Dark side had suffered the death of family members at the hand of Aurors, and there was nothing they hated more than the Ministry and the so-called Light side.

She answered carefully, "Not really – I only pretend to be, so that we can thwart their plans and eventually defeat them once and for all." She omitted the fact that she had been a true Auror with a very developed sense of duty not so long ago.

"You're really a Death Eater, then?" said Mrs Parkinson doubtfully. Hermione nodded, showing the Mark to them, though they had already seen it – but it didn't seem to sink in. Even though everyone in the room agreed with the Dark Lord's ideas, she knew it, very few of them were actually part of the Dark Order. But those who did join the Death Eaters were regarded as heroes who had the courage to risk their lives for their beliefs. However, it was common knowledge that women did not join the Death Eaters, Bellatrix being the only exception.

Bellatrix spoke up in her usual harsh voice. "She's the second woman to join the Death Eaters, ever, and she has passed us a lot of useful information. All those Aurors we've killed off recently … all thanks to her."

"Really?" said the curly-haired Rosalind McAudrey.

"Oh, I remember … my husband mentioned something about an important Ministry official joining the cause," said Adara Goyle. "That's a good thing."

"You don't get it, do you?" said Rosalind McAudrey. She bore a strange resemblance to a wizard who worked in Hermione's department at the Ministry, and now Hermione realised who. "She's a famous Auror; she put many of us in Azkaban –"

"Are you in any way related to Frederic McAudrey of the Wizengamot?" asked Hermione curiously.

The witch scowled at the mention of her relative, the traitor who dared to side with the Ministry. "He's my brother, though he has never approved of our family's Darker connections … a disgrace, that's what he is. You know him well?"

"He works in my department … you seem to share his paranoia. No offence, of course, I have no particular sympathy for blood traitors, despite being one myself … that's very fortunate, don't you agree? I'm above suspicion at the Ministry and in Dumbledore's crowd … it's not like they would ever expect someone of my _kind_ to support the Dark Lord. To them, it's unthinkable."

"Well, that's certainly good news for our side … don't you agree, Narcissa?" said Mrs Crabbe, turning to the blonde woman who had yet to say a single word. "You've been rather quiet."

"Very good news," said Mrs Malfoy through gritted teeth. "Though I wonder why an Auror would join the Dark Lord. Most of them have a very pronounced hatred of anything related to Dark magic …"

The older witch was probably trying to make the others think Hermione was a spy for the Ministry. But she wouldn't succeed, not if Hermione could help it. "That's true," she conceded, "but I've always had an interest in the Dark Arts, you see, it was part of the reason why I chose that career. They say you need to know Dark magic in order to defend against it, and what a better way to learn the Dark Arts with no risk of ever being compromised in the law's eyes … what a better way than to go into Auror training?"

The women exchanged glances. "Clever … very clever," said Mrs Flint, and her opinion seemed to be shared by the majority.

"But surely you wouldn't go as far as to kill one of your _friends _… Harry Potter, for example," Narcissa suggested shrewdly.

"He is no friend of mine," Hermione retorted coldly. She wasn't sure if she meant it or not, though. She did not particularly look forward to actually _killing_ Harry, not that she would have to do so. She was just a spy, after all. But these women didn't need to know that. "I'm a Death Eater and I'll do anything the Master asks of me."

"Then I only _hope_ you stay a loyal Death Eater for a long time," said Narcissa, sounding sceptical, and it was obvious to Hermione that she actually hoped for the opposite.

"The Dark Order is my _life_, Madam," said Hermione, glaring directly into the woman's icy blue eyes, "and I would _never_ let down those who have done me the honour of overlooking my blood. The possibility of me turning away from the Dark side is about as high as that of Bellatrix here –" she nodded at her fellow Death Eater, "– betraying the Dark Lord."

And all those present knew Bellatrix would rather die than betray her Master. It wasn't for nothing that she was considered the Dark Lord's most loyal servant.

Hermione meant it. And it seemed that she had sounded convincing, because as she looked around the table, she saw a new respect in the ladies' eyes. To their knowledge, only Bellatrix spoke of their cause with such fervour.

Narcissa Malfoy did not share the general opinion. She had seen an entirely different direction in Hermione's words, something the oblivious guests had failed to catch. They thought she was speaking of the Dark Lord's cause … but she wasn't.

"That's good to hear," Narcissa said with a coldness no one failed to catch. The animosity, the hatred even, in the two women's interaction took everyone aback. It looked like these two had hated each other from the minute they had met. Judging by the reciprocal glares that they had been giving each other throughout the evening, they could hardly stand each other's presence.

They were interrupted by the Lestrange brothers walking up to their table. Rodolphus invited his wife for a dance and Rabastan did the same to Hermione.

"Well … uh …" Hermione glanced around. She didn't feel like dancing at all. This was irritating, though it wouldn't be a good idea to antagonise these people – it was enough trouble that they weren't eager to accept her because of her blood … "All right," she said grudgingly.

She thought it would be impolite to refuse. She accepted, but only for one dance, and when it was over, she was very relieved to return to sit at the table.

Bellatrix soon complained about how she was "Already starting to feel hungry," and no sooner had she said it, a tray of refreshments appeared on their table, and their silver goblets were suddenly filled with various kinds of alcoholic drink.

Hermione sat chatting with the Dark side's women and she almost felt as though they were friends already (excluding the sulking, silent hostess). It felt like they had known each other for a long time, and for the first time, Hermione truly found out the meaning of the sense of _family_ on the Dark side.

She drank some wine. When Bellatrix told her that she ought to try Firewhisky, she protested at first, but in the end she agreed, seeing as most people around them was gulping down the strong drink in goblets.

Bellatrix obligingly filled a goblet and handed it to her. "There – try it. You'll like it, I'm telling you – I was reluctant to drink such a strong thing for the first time too, but you get used to it quickly."

Hermione did not see a manicured hand linger, for a second, over her glass …

She gulped down the Firewhisky, her eyes watering as it burnt her throat. She looked up to see an oddly triumphant expression on Narcissa Malfoy's face … she dismissed it as a false impression; the alcohol must have been playing tricks on her.

**-**

Hermione stood near one of the windows in the drawing room, examining the frost on the pane of glass. It wasn't that cold outside, and she had the suspicion that this was a trick of magic, just like the seemingly natural snow on the Christmas tree, which failed to melt in the warm interior temperature.

She looked up from the window to see a stringy, black-haired young man approaching her. She recognised him as Theodore Nott, the only student in Slytherin who had been able to see Thestrals in their fifth year. From what Hermione had heard, he had seen his mother murdered by Aurors when he was very young.

"Nice to see you, Granger. Oh, look, it's snowing! We'll be having a white Christmas," Nott commented enthusiastically.

"Sure," said Hermione, not failing to see the way he was looking at her body.

"Why I never noticed you at Hogwarts, I'll never know," the young wizard said thoughtfully, advancing towards her with a predatory grin.

"What are you doing?" she asked, unnerved.

"For your information, you're standing under the mistletoe –"

Hermione bolted.

She heard Nott set off after her and did not dare turn around. She ran as fast as she could, holding the hem of her dress so as not to trip over it. She ran through halls and corridors, not really paying attention to where she was going, until she could no longer hear Nott's footsteps behind her.

Hermione found herself in a dark passageway. She paused for breath. Now that she thought of it, perhaps it had not been a good idea to run off like that … she doubted she would be able to find her way back. She must have gone the wrong way; there were so many corridors in this house …

She let out a surprised squeak when she felt strong arms snake around her waist, and she could feel her assailant's breath on the back of her neck. She shivered.

"At that pace, young Nott could never catch up with you," he said in a drawling voice and Hermione caught a glimpse of gold as his hair reflected a ray of light. She heard him whisper something and torches flared to life on the walls, shedding a diffuse glow on the surroundings.

"You scared me, Lucius."

"Scaring people has always been my favourite pastime," he drawled, smirking. "Come, Hermione. I'll make sure young Nott keeps away from you."

He grabbed her arm, and with a _crack_, they were standing in a much better lit hallway.

A large tapestry embroidered with a colourful coat of arms covered a portion of one wall. It was the first time Hermione had the chance to see the Malfoy crest in detail.

"Quite grandiose, is it not?" Lucius, who had noticed her staring at the tapestry, remarked negligently.

Hermione nodded, gazing at the crest.

"This is the insignia of the House of Malfoy," he told her. "In the centre is a dagger shaped as the _fleur de lys_, symbol of the French royalty. That dagger has been in possession of the family since the Middle Ages – it is used for various formal rituals, blood ceremonies for instance. The adjacent serpents represent our family's attachment to the Dark – you have heard, of course, that snakes traditionally symbolise Dark magic. Above is a gold crown associated with the Saxon Kings who have ruled Britain for centuries. In the background, you can see the shield of Wiltshire County, with its horizontal green and white stripes, the colours echoing the district's pasturelands and chalk downs.

"This is a modern version of the Malfoy coat of arms. Relatively modern, considering it has last been modified in 1846. The original design did not include the crown, only the _fleur de lys_ and the serpents, which had been the _armoires_ of the early Malfoys of France. '_Oderint dum metuant_' has been our _devise_ back in France and has not been changed since. Our second creed, which does not appear on the depiction you are looking at, is _in dicio quod sanctimonia et nobilitas vereor_."

"Pride in power, purity and nobility," translated Hermione, not at all surprised. "You really consider yourself royalty, don't you?"

His cold grey eyes glinted strangely. "We have every right to _consider ourselves_ royalty, Hermione, because that is what we are. Not only can our lineage be traced back to the 8th century and over 40 generations of pure-bloods, but the Malfoy family had once held sovereign power over wizarding Britain …"

"Really?" said Hermione, her eyebrows knitted together. "I fail to remember reading anything of the kind, and believe me, I've studied History of Magic very thoroughly."

"You need to learn that books do not always tell the truth, Hermione," he said in a dismissive tone, "and when they do, they might – ah – omit some highly significant details. Come with me to the Portrait Gallery – I want to show my ancestors to you."

And he led her into a long hallway where the walls on both sides were made entirely of polished marble. The floor was of marble too, like in the rest of the house.

The walls were lined with magical portraits of witches and wizards dressed in all sorts of luxurious robes. All the wizards and most of the ladies had the typical Malfoy looks: shiny blond hair, grey eyes and a proud, haughty posture.

Lucius walked forward slowly, designating the portraits of the ancient Malfoys and their spouses.

"The legendary Agatha Borgia, notorious for having single-handedly poisoned over three thousand Muggles – 3016, to be precise – using a flask of poison that she had transfigured into a ring and carried it on her at all time. She created most of the assortment of poisons stored in the secret chamber downstairs."

"I never knew _she_ was part of the Malfoy family!" exclaimed Hermione. She had read about the infamous witch's exploits. The Borgia family were well-known poison-makers and Agatha Borgia had been a deadly assassin who had dealt away with entire families of wizards, like her squib cousin Lucretia had done among Muggles.

"She was our Italian cousin and a Malfoy by marriage. Josephine Poiseau – also renowned for her deadly concoctions – was the wife of Antoine Malfoy, the founder of the English Malfoy clan."

Hermione listened with genuine interest.

"And this witch in the lace dress was a Russian princess in the XIIth century," he related. "According to the rumours, she strangled her first husband along with several of her other suitors …"

Hermione looked at the woman whose head was tilted back in an attitude worthy of the princess that she had been. Her hair was an ash-blonde colour and her blue eyes looked cold as ice

"In an act of severe imprudence, Lord Edmund Malfoy took her as his consort. One year later, he was found asphyxiated in his bedroom. The identity of the murderer was never discovered, though Tatiana did recover from her grief at a suspicious speed. She neglected her son, who grew up to hate his mother enough to smother her in her sleep when he was sixteen."

"So that's where your tendency to strangle your enemies comes from," said Hermione.

Lucius smiled coldly.

But Hermione's attention was drawn to a portrait a bit farther along the wall, in a frame of gold, where a blond man reclined on a splendid silver throne cushioned with dark velvet. A man who appeared to be the exact replica of Lucius, down to the same shade of hair and the same facial traits, and the same proud, dignified expression … only there was a crease of bitterness in the corners of his mouth. It was visible that this was someone who had suffered great disappointment in life.

"And here is my great-great-great-grandfather and namesake, Lord Altair Malfoy. He is regarded as the all-time hero of the family ... back in the days when wizard blood still counted in the eyes of society, he brought the Malfoy name to the height of power …

"This," he continued, gesturing to the frame on the left, which harboured a dark-haired woman, "is Antarès Lestrange, a Malfoy by oath."

Hermione looked at the woman. She had dark hair and brown eyes, and she was wearing a crown of gold incrusted with diamonds and emeralds on her head … a crown that looked familiar, for Hermione had seen it before. She had seen herself wearing it in the Mirror of Erised.

She looked at the woman in interest … and the woman was observing Hermione carefully in return, a thoughtful expression on her face.

"Lestrange?" Hermione repeated, intrigued. "The same family as Bellatrix's husband?"

"The same," confirmed Lucius. "The Lestranges immigrated to England at the same era as we did, during the times the Muggles refer to as – ah, '_the Inquisition_'. The persecution in their native Spain was no less rigorous than the witch hunts in France, you understand, and many of us chose to relocate to the more peaceful British Isles."

They had reached the portrait of a man with a distinctly sombre look in his eyes. "Eridanus Malfoy, grandson of Altair," said Lucius.

"He looks like someone who has both witnessed and caused a lot of tragedy," stated Hermione.

"A highly accurate assessment." He indicated two portraits a bit farther along the wall. "My father, Abraxas Malfoy … and my mother, Cecilia."

The latter, dressed in pearly white robes, was highly beautiful and lacked the haughtiness of most of the people in the portraits. Unlike her strict-looking husband, she smiled very kindly at her son, and while she watched Hermione with curiosity, there was no hostility in her eyes.

They had arrived at the end of the hallway and now stood in front of a set of intricately carved wooden doors, which presumably led to the drawing room.

"I feel privileged to meet your family, _my Lord_," Hermione whispered, her voice nearly inaudible, in Lucius's ear. The portraits did not hear her … except one. That of a woman with dark hair and dark eyes, eyes that misted over, a faint smile appearing on her face as she got lost in a memory.

Hermione had no way of knowing, of course, that the woman had seen a younger version of herself in her. More than the strange connection in their names, Antarès Lestrange Malfoy saw herself in the young witch her great-great-great-grandson seemed to be fond of. And had Hermione looked at her portrait at that moment, she would have had the impression that this witch expected something of her – great things, actually. She hoped that she would assume her role and achieve the things she herself had once done. Fate had not been with her, and her – _their_ – empire had crumbled … but this young woman had given her a new hope. A hope that she would one day see restored the power of old, the power she had fought to create to bring glory to the name of someone she loved more than life itself. A name that would one day be her own …

"Very good … I believe it would be a judicious idea to rejoin our guests now, Hermione," Lucius drawled. He waved his hand at the heavy double doors, which opened of their own accord at his gesture.

He grabbed Hermione's hand and tucked it under his arm. Her eyebrows rose in surprise, but she did not say anything. She only wondered whether his wife would pass out from rage when she would see them walk in like that … _But if he doesn't care, nether should I_, she thought as he led her into the tumultuous drawing room.

The doors swung closed behind them.

There was a moment of silence in the now empty gallery worthy of royalty, then all the portraits started talking at once, their voices echoing off the marble walls. Some sounded suspicious, others excited.

The woman with the crown walked sideways out of her frame and emerged in the portrait next to hers, where a blond man reclined in a throne-like chair. In a medieval gesture of deference, she knelt on the carpet by his throne.

"My Lord, if there was such a thing as reincarnation …" she started. Her voice was melodious yet full of vivacity.

"Indeed, Antarès," drawled the man on the throne "– but there is one divergence between you and her, a tremendous divergence … you are a pure-blood, whereas she …" he paused. "Nevertheless, she may be just what we need to bring the family back to power."

"It takes a woman's ambition to achieve that sort of power," she said matter-of-factly. She was rewarded with a slightly resentful glance from her companion.

"It pains me to admit my agreement, Antarès, though I am not really in a position to deny it … yet I would remind you that precious few ladies have an ambition to move mountains."

The dark-haired Queen smirked. "Well, let us hope she is one of those few."

"We shall see," drawled Altair Malfoy, "we shall see."

**-**

In the drawing room, the wizard orchestra was playing a lively tune Hermione recognised as some of Strauss's music (she knew the song – it was the _Blue Danube_, one of Hermione's parents' favourite melodies). Apparently, like dining manners, classical music was one of the things that were universal between Muggles and wizardkind, accepted equally in both worlds.

Lucius had finally invited her to dance, completely ignoring the incensed glare his wife was giving him. Hermione couldn't have been more thrilled, though she didn't except such an … intense kind of dance.

He twirled her in his arms, steering her across the floor at an alarming speed, lifting her into the air as though she were a weightless doll, his hands gripping her waist … Hermione was so dizzy she thought she would crash head-first into a wall, and she probably would have if it wasn't for his firm grip on her wrists. But she enjoyed herself immensely.

She remembered the dancing lessons her parents had forced her to take, painfully learning the precise steps and movements to all popular dances as well as a few of the more traditional, old-fashioned ones. She quickly caught up with the music and the body movements she had learnt as a child came to her automatically. Led by her partner, Hermione swirled in rhythm with the music, her movements supple and full of grace, her feet barely touching the floor.

_This is incredible_, she thought as Lucius lifted her into the air, holding her waist, then placed her back at her feet and forced her to make a series of dizzying twirls. She did not have the time to stop to breathe as he led her through another lively spin.

She had danced a few traditional dances with Viktor at the Yule Ball, earning enthusiastic remarks about her agility, but it had been nothing compared to this.

The overwhelming speed of the dance reminded her of Duelling class during her Auror training, where she had had to duck, dodge and swirl out of the way of curses. Only, unlike on the battlefield, here the routine wasn't motivated by fear or self-preservation.

She shocked many with her grace that day, and many of the other couples stopped in their movements as they watched their host lead the youngest Death Eater through a series of dizzying moves at lightning speed, their movements attuned to each other in an astounding synchronicity. Hermione, pliant in his arms, moved as though she were an extension of him, deciphering his intentions in time to move in compliance with his lead. They moved as one and many wondered what it was that united them so.

Lucius himself was taken aback by her knowledge of the steps as well as the flexibility of her body. "You are _amazing,_" he whispered into her ear while pulling her into yet another twirl and she followed instinctively.

"Never have I seen a woman dance like you do … not even Narcissa, who has been taught to perform the most complex of dances since early childhood, can match your grace …"

She leaned against him, utterly relaxed in his arms as he lifted her by her elbows and flung her into the air, catching her only when she was mere inches from the floor. She let him jerk her body into odd positions; she was dizzy enough to collapse yet she did not fear he would let her fall. She had complete trust in him.

Hermione couldn't tear her eyes away from his grey ones, not even when he opened his mouth to murmur words of appraisal in her ear.

"Narcissa has nothing of your grace … she lacks the attitude that distinguishes you so, your unreserved abandon, your natural submission …"

Draco was staring at them open-mouthed, totally ignoring Pansy, who was tugging on his arm. He could not believe this. His father would never touch a Mudblood, even less dance with one for over a quarter of an hour …

Yet he did not dare comment on it, fearing that his father would scold him in front of all the guests as he often did for 'asking daft questions'.

Narcissa, dancing with one of the guests, watched her husband and the girl with narrowed eyes. Her upper lip trembled, but she did not dare say anything. She knew Lucius well enough to realise that nothing she said could change his mind. He was the master of the house and of the family.

But that didn't mean Narcissa would sit back and do nothing. Oh no. Everything was prepared and if things went as planned (and why wouldn't they?), she would not have to bear the damned wench's competition for long.


	12. Into the Pit of Sin with Thee

— CHAPTER TWELVE —

_**Into the Pit of Sin with Thee**_

After the dance, Hermione slipped out of the drawing room to go to the bathroom which, according to Bellatrix, was the last door in the corridor on the right of the entrance hall.

Coddy the house-elf accosted her in the hall, falling into a bow and clutching at the hem of her dress. "Oh, Miss, Coddy is so sorry …" the elf lamented, almost crying. "Coddy tried to warn Miss, oh yes Coddy did, but Coddy was scared Mistress would notice … Mistress would have been so angry …"

The elf looked around fearfully and hit itself on the head with its fist.

"Coddy?" Hermione said uncertainly. "Stop! What are you talking about?"

"Coddy cannot tell," the elf whispered, "Coddy cannot tell because Coddy's Masters are bad wizards … very bad wizards –" it broke off suddenly, looking horrified. "_Bad Coddy!_" it squeaked, repeatedly banging its head on the wall. "_Bad Coddy!_"

The house-elf looked at Hermione, who had been standing there watching in some kind of sickened fascination. "Coddy is not supposed to speak ill of his masters. Coddy has to punish himself."

She stared at the house-elf, noting that it looked quite dirty. Didn't it ever wash itself? "You shouldn't have said that, Coddy," she admonished, before moving on through the corridor.

-

When she re-emerged from the bathroom, Hermione noticed a crowd in the entrance hall. The group was mostly comprised of those she knew to be Death Eaters, including a very eager-looking Bellatrix. The heavily lidded woman, who seemed to have taken it as her personal duty to introduce Hermione to the ways and customs of the Dark side, discreetly motioned for her to join the group. Hermione did so, wondering what this was all about.

"Now we are going out for some entertainment," drawled Lucius, his eyes glinting with excitement. He was at the head of the group, and the others were huddled around him as though waiting for instructions. In the Dark Lord's absence, he was their leader.

"What kind of entertainment?" Hermione asked warily.

"Muggle-hunting. Give them a Christmas present, so to say."

Hermione had noticed long ago that he was particularly enthusiastic about terrorising Muggles. And drunken Dark wizards were highly dangerous, as she had learnt back at the Quidditch World Cup.

She felt torn between protesting against the cruelty done to the poor Muggles, and berating them for the imprudence of the idea ("What if the Ministry catches us?"). But her excitement at the opportunity to practice Unforgivable curses finally won. She remembered the thrill she had felt when casting the Cruciatus and she wanted to do it again. Obviously, she wasn't entirely sober either.

"I am going with you," stated Narcissa, who had just emerged from the corridor that led to the dining room. Sophie Rosier stood behind her. At the mention of Muggle-hunting, Mrs Rosier's deadened eyes had regained some life.

"Absolutely not! You will stay at the manor, Narcissa. Have you any idea of the trouble they –" Lucius gestured at the small children, who were currently running around playing hide-and-seek, "– might cause if left unattended? This is out of the question!"

"Pansy will keep an eye on the guests, Lucius," Narcissa retorted calmly. "She has shown great skill when organising this event, and only the Lord knows what I would have done if it weren't for her assistance. She will oversee the evening's festivities in my place while I join you."

"No, Narcissa, you are not coming with us. I care _naught_ about your opinion of Pansy's social capacities – which I find no more remarkable than yours – and _you are_ _staying at the manor, do you hear me_?"

"Oh, _fine_!" she said resentfully, flinching. "But surely _she _is not going," she added snidely, her furious blue eyes straying to where Hermione stood with the other Death Eaters.

"And why ever not, Madam?" asked Hermione lazily.

"Muggle-hunting is not an activity for women. It is so _unladylike_ to participate in such a thing …"

"Hypocrite," Hermione mumbled under her breath.

"Then what am I, sister dearest?" Bellatrix cut in. "Are you saying I am no lady?"

"If I didn't know you are sleeping with the Dark Lord, I would have wondered," Narcissa spat viciously in her elder sister's direction.

_Oh, so it's true_, thought Hermione. The nature of Bellatrix Lestrange's relationship with the Dark Lord had been the subject of much speculation in the Auror Headquarters.

"What's got into you, Cissy?" asked Bellatrix harshly, looking not at all embarrassed. "You've been in one hell of a horrible mood all evening."

Hermione edged away from the bickering siblings. She looked at the wizards around her – nearly all her fellow Death Eaters, plus Mrs Rosier, who had joined the group. They were conjuring Death Eater robes and masks and pulling them over their dress robes. She was confused. "But it's cold and snowing outside … we'll freeze to death, if that's all we wear!"

Rabastan Lestrange turned to her, smiling. "These robes are charmed to repel water and keep you warm regardless of the weather. Do you remember feeling cold at the last meeting?"

"Oh!" Hermione exclaimed, realising her stupidity. The night of her initiation had been rather chilly, but she didn't remember feeling the least bit cold … "Thanks, Rabastan."

"It's nothing," he mumbled, blushing. "You're new among us … it's to be expected that you don't know the way things work here, and without someone to guide you ..."

By all signs, Rabastan Lestrange was infatuated with her. Hermione tactfully moved away from him. Then everyone was startled by Bellatrix's shrill laughter of coming from the corner where she stood exchanging insults with her sister. "_Always knew – you were – a loser, Cissy!_" Bellatrix shrieked gleefully between peals of laughter, while her blonde sibling dashed from the room, very red in the face, as though in her exasperation, she had revealed to cruel sister something she now regretted.

In the commotion, Hermione quietly pushed her way through the cluster of Death Eaters and slipped into the position beside Lucius.

"Where are we going?" she asked him.

"To London … they are currently celebrating on the streets … perhaps you know a convenient spot, Hermione?"

"I know just the place," she said after a second's hesitation. "I did grow up in the Muggle world. There's always a huge crowd in Trafalgar Square, in the City …"

"Ah, very convenient to have a Muggle-born in out midst … most advantageous." He then conveyed the directions to the rest of the group.

They appeared in a crowd of Muggles who were singing and laughing, some of them looking quite a bit drunk. The Death Eaters sprung into action while Hermione, as it was her first time participating in an attack with the Dark Order, stood back and watched. Mulciber had cast the Imperius curse on a cluster of Muggles and was watching them fight each other, while Bellatrix was performing the Cruciatus Curse, resulting in high-pitched screams that echoed through the crowd.

Hermione glanced over at Lucius. Three struggling Muggles were floating in mid-air high above him, exactly like at the Quidditch World Cup, and he was making them perform some weird acrobatics in mid-air, directing their moves with a flick of his wand.

She knew Lucius well enough to realise what was going on in his head. To him, everything was about control. He could have used the Imperius, like Mulciber, but he liked to see them struggle. He wanted to see the strain on their faces as they tried, uselessly, to direct their actions. He wanted to witness the horror in their eyes as they realised they had no control over their own bodies whilst their minds fought against the external force controlling them.

He sought emotional control. He wanted them to be conscious of their own weakness; he wanted them to be aware of the power he had over them. Hermione knew all too well the look of imperious malice in his eyes. It was the same look he regarded her with every night, staring down into her eyes as though seeking to control her thoughts … Hermione had to admit it was oddly thrilling. He was the most controlling man she had ever met, and so powerful ... and yet, in his presence, she felt protected. When his arms enfolded her, she felt shielded from the hardships of life. True, she had been acting a bit carelessly lately, but she knew no harm could befall her. She was on the winning side, and the second most powerful Dark wizard in the country was her protector. What did she have to fear?

Hermione's attention was caught when one of the Muggles in the crowd shouted, "Oh, look, it's some weirdoes!"

It was a teenage girl in a pink coat. Another girl of about the same age, but wearing a blue coat, replied:

"Yeah, Celia, it's those _freaks_ –"

The other Muggles stared apprehensively as Hermione slowly stalked closer to the rude pair. This must have been the kind of Muggles Harry had described as his relatives, those who considered magic a scourge to the world simply because they feared it.

She aimed her wand at one of the girls. It would be the first time she killed an innocent person …

_Hermione, NO!_ screamed the shattered remains of what had been her conscience. But she was too far gone to hear it.

She concentrated on the hatred she knew Lucius felt towards these people, people who had persecuted witches and wizards for centuries and who would still do so to this day if they had the chance, just because they were afraid of magic. She concentrated on how he would have wanted to see this _filth_ brought low and lifeless, lifeless like the ill-fated witches who had had the misfortune to find themselves wandless in the Muggle world and were burnt at stake centuries ago.

"_Avada Kedavra!_" yelled Hermione.

Green light burst from the tip of her wand; there was a rushing sound similar to a gust of wind, followed by the _thud_ of a body falling to the ground …

The girl lay unmoving in the snow, her face frozen in an expression of shock, her mouth gaping open … The Muggles around them screamed and an older Muggle woman, probably the dead girl's mother, threw herself at the body, shaking it and crying for her daughter to "wake up".

Hermione felt light-headed; the rush of power she had felt had been exhilarating. To have the ability to take someone's life with just two words … it was unlike anything she had experienced before and she understood why the Dark Arts were said to be addictive. Not that it was a bad thing, was it? she thought dazedly. There were enough Muggles in the world, more than enough to practice on …

The Muggle rounded on her daughter's murderer. Her eyes, though full of tears, were almost bulging out with rage. "You! What did you do to my baby?" she shrieked.

The Death Eaters around them laughed … and so did Hermione. She could see why they found this pathetic, really … this woman had seen first-hand the power she wielded and she was foolish enough to confront her, too stupid to even show a hint of fear? _I'll teach them to fear us_, she thought cruelly, lifting her wand again. "_Crucio!_"

The Muggle collapsed by her daughter's corpse on the snow-covered ground, screaming like a banshee. The Death Eaters laughed and jeered …

Hermione held the curse, enjoying every second of it … she wondered how long it would take to torture a Muggle into insanity … "Hey, Bellatrix!"

The older woman, who had been watching in gleeful fascination, raised her eyes from the writhing body. "What?"

Hermione couldn't believe what she was about to ask. It seemed like the Firewhiskey had succeeded in making her let go of all inhibitions, of all traces of conscience or shame. With pure curiosity, she asked, "How long did it take for the Longbottoms to lose their minds?"

Bellatrix's eyes lit up in jubilant recollection. "Almost an hour. The woman was tougher, though, but she too broke after an hour and fifteen minutes of almost uninterrupted Cruciatus; I took note of the time. It was mostly Rodolphus and I, but Rabastan and the Crouch boy tried to help …"

Hermione had once feared being victim of the same fate. Now a Muggle was about to suffer that fate at her hand. How ironic … she wondered if the Ministry wizards would put this Muggle in St Mungo's when they found her … They probably would. Muggles with magical ailments were usually placed in a secluded ward of the wizard hospital, healed then Obliviated … but insanity resulting from prolonged exposure to the Cruciatus did not heal. The Ministry was really stupid, too – why go to the trouble of keeping victims in the hospital if there was not a chance of them ever recovering? What was the point? Why not just kill them?

She imagined what she looked like, right now, laughing over the corpse of someone she had killed and torturing a Muggle into insanity … _What have I become?_ she wondered, mildly horrified. But as she met the cold grey eyes watching her fondly, she knew she was beyond caring. They were just Muggles, after all … just mere Muggles, annoying creatures with a limited intelligence. Like animals. Like the ants on the ground or the mice that inhabited some of their houses … just _Muggles_, nothing more.

"You make me proud," Lucius said softly in her ear. He slid a hand under her hood and caressed her hair tenderly. She maintained the curse as the Muggle screamed and writhed … it wasn't so difficult, really, you just had to _enjoy_ their pain …

The two of them stood there, she torturing the woman while he waved his wand, making the Muggles spin in the air. Bellatrix watched, cackling.

After some ten minutes of Cruciatus, the Muggle woman stopped screaming. She had lost consciousness. "Weaklings," Bellatrix muttered, bored, and walked off in search of a new target.

With an evil smirk, Hermione pointed her wand at a random Muggle woman in the crowd. Judging by her actions, Hermione had drank a bit too much Firewhisky, though it only brought out the _less than kind_ side of her personality.

There was a flash of light and the woman was hanging upside-down in the air, her heavy skirt falling over her head …

The Death Eaters laughed and Lucius turned his head sideways to glance at Hermione through the eye-slits in his mask. "I should have known … there, I thought for a second that Narcissa had disobeyed me and followed us. _That_ was her exploit, at the World Cup … though it seems to amuse them a great deal," he added as the Death Eaters around them jeered louder than ever. Bellatrix's gleeful shrieks stood out distinctly.

Lucius flicked his wand, letting the three Muggles fall to the ground and crack their skulls open on the pavement. "That spares us the bother of terminating their petty existences."

Hermione shrugged uncaringly. True, the method was rather grotesque, but it wasn't like she actually cared. She flicked her wand upwards and the Muggle she had been levitating dropped to the ground as well.

"Well, we've had our fun – now, as a Ministry witch, aren't I supposed to Obliviate them?"

"Absolutely not," Lucius said sharply.

"Why not?"

"Muggles were meant to fear us, Hermione, and in order to fear us, they need to be aware of our existence," he said vehemently, his eyes flashing.

"You know that the Obliviators will be here in no time; the Ministry won't let them remember anyway, so what's the use?"

"Principles, Hermione, principles … let the Ministry clean up after us if they so desire, it is their business. Besides, do you not realise it would look highly suspicious? Death Eaters never erase traces of their actions."

"Sorry," she mumbled. "I guess I've drunk too much …"

"We all have, Hermione, we all have."

"Yes, I can see that," she said, resolutely looking away from the disgusting activities that were going on around them. "We shouldn't stay here. It's not wise to wait for the Ministry wizards …"

"I highly doubt they would be so swift on a holiday. Think – what are your colleagues doing at the present time?"

"Most are having Christmas parties," Hermione said in realisation. "They'll be too drunk to do their duty even if they were called to office."

"Precisely. However, you are correct, we need not risk it – _we are done here!_" he shouted to the Death Eaters around them. "Macnair, come back here and clean up! Avery, help him – Dolohov, just kill them and get over with it, we haven't got time to fool around – Bellatrix, leave her, _leave her, I say_ – you'll have plenty of chances to torture a Muggle later. Hermione, summon the Mark!"

The masked figures obeyed, but with visible reluctance. They stopped whatever they were doing to torture the Muggles – Hermione saw Bellatrix lower her wand, breaking the Cruciatus Curse she had been performing on some Muggle girl who looked no older than five, while Macnair was stuffing what looked like a large knife into the pocket of his robes. But some did not turn away before casting a killing curse.

There were flashes of green and the Muggles shrieked in terror. The Death Eaters laughed and jeered.

"_Enough for today!_" Lucius bawled at them just as Hermione aimed her wand at the sky. "We need to leave before the Aurors arrive!"

"_Morsmordre_!" said Hermione.

No sooner had she said it that there were popping sounds all around them. _Too late! _Ten wizards, each wearing the distinct red robes of the Aurors, had appeared out of thin air. All had their wands aimed at them. Hermione tensed; this was the first time she faced her colleagues as enemies. She could discern a mop of red hair in the crowd, and a pair of emerald-green eyes glinting ferociously …

At the arrival of the Ministry wizards, the Death Eaters gasped and yelled to alert their fellows, but not one quite knew what to do. Hermione felt Lucius's hand tighten painfully on her shoulder.

She had always been quick to think – and act – in dangerous situations. Panic did not cloud her mind but prompted her into action. She was much quicker than the others, who had frozen momentarily, exactly what had been their undoing at the Department of Mysteries.

Hermione promptly levitated two nearby Muggles into the sky, directly under the glowing Dark Mark and as high as she could, so that they would be fully visible to the Aurors. "Lower your wands or I'll drop them," she said loudly, disguising her voice in the only way she could think of: by drawing out the vowel sounds and pronouncing the words with deliberate slowness. The result was a feminine version of the Malfoy drawl, and sounded nothing like Hermione's voice. It was a good thing she was wearing a mask; she only hoped her eyes weren't enough to give away her identity.

She had succeeded in gaining the Aurors' attention. They aimed their wands at her, but not one spell was cast. Their eyes moved between the group of Death Eaters and the Muggles held hostage, then they glanced at each other hopelessly.

Hermione knew their weaknesses – she had been one of them. She knew that their _nobleness_ would not allow them to condemn some poor, defenceless Muggles to certain death, not even for the sake of capturing a group of Death Eaters. If they were to cast a spell on the Death Eaters and miss, they would let the Muggles would fall to the ground (and from that height, they would certainly die from the fall). And if they managed to Stun the Death Eaters, the Levitation spell would be lifted abruptly and the Muggles would still fall. Ah, what to do, what to do … she was happy to see that not even Harry knew how to react in this situation. Perhaps some of the Aurors were quite ruthless and would have preferred to take the risk, but with Harry in the lead … his greatest weakness had always been his fear of causing another person's death.

She saw Bellatrix snap out of the shock and imitate her. She pounced on one of the Aurors – a young woman who had only qualified recently. Bellatrix grabbed her before she had the time to defend herself and pressed her wand to her neck.

"Hello, little bitty baby Potter," Bellatrix called out to the leader of the red-robed division. "You try to attack us and she dies."

"Lestrange," Harry Potter spat hatefully, pointing his wand at Bellatrix. Hermione wondered if he was going to cast the Cruciatus Curse. If he had done so in their fifth year … but surely he wouldn't do it in front of all his fellow Aurors!

"Going to curse me, Potter?" shrieked Bellatrix. "Go ahead, then, do it, raise your wand – and your friend dies. It would be no big loss – you Aurors should be used to losing your buddies to our cause –"

"Do you think you can save every filthy Muggle in the world from us, Potter, when you can't even save your friends?" Lucius added, with a malicious glance at the Auror held hostage by Bellatrix.

Bellatrix's daring act, combined with Hermione's resourceful move, had given the others time to recover from the Aurors' sudden arrival. While Harry and his colleagues were distracted by Bellatrix, the Death Eaters were raising their wands, preparing to duel with the Aurors who wanted to rescue the Muggles.

"Come back here!" Lucius shouted to the other Death Eaters. "Surround us! Form a circle at once!"

The hooded wizards, who were about to start duelling with the Aurors, obeyed. They formed a dense crowd around Lucius, Hermione and Bellatrix, thus shielding them from any spell the Aurors could cast in an attempt to free the Muggles held hostage by the two witches.

"Come, my dear," Lucius said, grabbing Hermione's hand. He Disapparated, taking her with him, leaving their fellow Death Eaters to fend for themselves. She heard a _crack_ as Bellatrix Disapparated at the same time as they.

They reappeared in the warm entrance hall of the manor and Hermione belatedly realised that the Anti-Apparition wards did not apply to Lucius, since he could Apparate inside the grounds. Only powerful blood magic could override an Anti-Apparition barrier of such magnitude.

She let out a breath of relief. "That was close," she said as they removed their masks and cloaks.

"It was fun nonetheless –" started Lucius.

Hermione raised her eyebrows. She wouldn't call it _fun_ … so risky …

"– but I did not expect the meddling fools to arrive so quickly. A wise move you did out there … _ingenious_, in fact. You have learnt well, Hermione,"

She smiled, still a little shaken. "I've always been quick to take action in dangerous circumstances … but I was so _scared_ … we could have ended up in Azkaban!"

"But we did not, thanks to you. However, I wonder how the others are faring … the Dark Lord is not going to be in high spirits if they get themselves apprehended yet again. Incidentally, I am glad to see you mingling so easily with the crowd, although it did startle me to see you seated at my wife's table …"

Suddenly, Hermione felt an icy sensation in her stomach. The feeling resembled the one brought by a Dementor's presence, but there were no Dementors nearby; she felt the warm air of the room, but she shivered, chilled to the bones. Her breathing became shallow and she felt faintly sick …

"You look awfully pale, Hermione. Are you ill?" he said sharply. It was one of the few times she had seen him show any kind of concern.

"I'm not feeling well. I think I should go home."

"Then do so."

Hermione hurriedly pulled her fur coat over her dress, though it did nothing to warm her. Something wasn't right …

She remembered Coddy the house-elf's bizarre warning and the triumphant look she had seen in her rival's eyes earlier that evening … perhaps she had not imagined it after all.


	13. On Death's Door

— CHAPTER THIRTEEN —

_**On Death's Door**_

Hermione Apparated home and was met by Crookshanks, who immediately tried to jump onto her shoulder.

"Not now, Crookshanks," she said, pushing the ginger cat away. It looked at her inscrutably, sniffed at her hand and hissed. Hermione silently cursed her pet's part-Kneazle origins, which accounted for its unusual intelligence and its ability to detect 'untrustworthy' people.

It must have sensed the residue of Dark magic left on her from the use of the Killing Curse … Hermione turned away from her cat's unreadable yellow eyes. The last thing she needed to worry about right now was whether a _cat_ condemned her for being a murderer.

She quickly poured the contents of a vial of an all-purpose antidote, which she always kept at hand, into a glass of water and swallowed it.

As an Auror, poisoning was an almost normal occurrence, and this was not the first time Hermione found herself the victim of some harmful potion. No wonder Mad-Eye Moody only drank from his flask. There were days when Hermione seriously thought to take the paranoid ex-Auror's example.

The antidote she took was potent and nearly always worked. But this time, Hermione sensed no effect. If anything, the symptoms seemed to intensify with every minute. She was feeling so cold that it felt as though she was freezing, and the pain in her stomach was starting to become unbearable. Drops of cold sweat were trickling down her forehead and her vision blurred … she felt like she was about to lose consciousness.

She struggled to think clearly. If it was that serious … she had better go to St Mungo's hospital. Merlin knew _what_ that damned witch had put in her goblet …

Stumbling, Hermione pulled some random robes from the closet – it happened to be her Auror uniform – and changed into the red robes, leaving her dress on a chair.

As though in a dream, she paused to scribble a few words on a clipboard on the nearby table … an action that would later save her life.

She knew she could not Apparate in this state – she risked splinching herself. It was a wonder she had managed to Apparate home correctly, but she did not want to take the risk again.

Hermione stepped out into the cold, though she didn't really feel it, because she was freezing from the inside … She pulled out her wand and flung it out in the air in front of her.

The purple Knight Bus appeared out of nowhere and skidded to a halt directly before her.

"Not feeling well – to St Mungo's," she told the rambunctious wizard in a purple uniform, who had leapt down on to the pavement and started the usual welcoming speech.

The conductor took one look at her pale, sweaty face and understood instantly.

"'Ere, get on," he said quickly, helping Hermione up the steps and into the base level deck, past wizards and witches in nightdresses who were dozing on brass bedsteads. A few who were more awake ogled her, recognising her Auror uniform.

-

On the third floor of St Mungo's hospital, Hermione was questioned about how she was feeling and had to undergo a quick examination. She described her condition as well as she could, though she could not even think clearly in this state. She was administered a few antidotes, but when not one of them had the slightest effect, the Healers started to look worried.

A mediwitch led her through a corridor and into another ward. Hermione's eyes fell upon a plaque on the door, and she had the time to read the inscription before she was ushered inside the _'Dangerous' Norma Macrae Ward: Noxious Poisoning Cases._ There was a card under it, on which was written in an untidy scrawl: _Healer-in-Charge: Hyades Scott. Trainee Healer: Walter Forbes._

Hermione had an ominous feeling when she entered the small, poorly lit ward. _Noxious Poisoning Cases._ Noxious. As in synonym of lethal. Deadly. So this was it; there was no hope left. She was going to die.

She did not notice much of her surroundings, only that the room was dark and less-than-inviting.

Hermione turned to the wizard in lime-green robes. "What is the meaning of this?" she demanded, forcing herself to appear confident in spite of how she was feeling. "Am I to conclude there is no hope left?"

The Healer looked uneasy. "What makes you think that?"

"Well, the fact that I have been transferred to the _Noxious Poisoning Cases_ ward … and your attitude seems far too solemn …" Hermione sighed. "Healer Scott, please tell me … I am going to die, correct?" she said bluntly.

"No, no, it's nothing like that," the Healer said hurriedly. "That was one nasty substance you ingested, but I'm sure we'll find an antidote yet …"

From the evasive tone, Hermione got the impression the Healer knew there was no antidote to it, and was trying to make her last moments a bit more comfortable – if that was possible with the pain she was feeling.

Hermione frowned. "Don't lie to me, Mr Scott. I'm not going to scream in denial if you tell me the truth."

The truth that she had already guessed. The triumphant gleam in Narcissa Malfoy's icy blue eyes had spoken for itself.

Through the feverish haze in her mind, Hermione only caught part of Healer Scott's reluctant answer to her question. The few words were enough to confirm her suspicions.

"I'm sorry … a deadly poison … nothing to do …"

Hermione let her head fall back on the bedstead as though all her remaining energy had suddenly abandoned her.

"We can contact your family," the Healer said gently.

She raised her head. "I have no magical family. My parents are Muggles – you can't contact them, they aren't connected to the Floo network, and by the time an owl would reach them …" _I'd be dead._

She didn't think they would want to come anyway, after how she had behaved towards them. They would probably think it served her right.

"Your friends, then. We'll contact your friends and co-workers so that they can keep you company …"

She knew Harry would mourn her, unaware of how little she deserved it. She had seen understanding in his eyes before she had erased his memory … but she remembered the hate on his face, hours ago, when he had seen what she had become and what she was prepared to do …

Maybe Ron would even snap back to sense at seeing her so close to death … but she didn't deserve their grief. It would only make her feel guilty. She had caused them enough pain. She had ruined their Christmas celebrations by participating in the Death Eater attack …

"No, I'd rather you didn't, Mr Scott. I'd rather they don't see me like this …"

She saw the Healer's understanding nod, and it strengthened her resolve. No, she didn't want to spend her last moments with Harry and Ron.

"Listen to me … please don't notify my employer, the Ministry of Magic, until after I'm … dead."

"Why?"

"Please, just take this as my last request. I don't want all my colleagues crowded around my bed. I'd rather not be disturbed right now," she managed.

"If you are sure," Healer Scott said reluctantly. "You can call for me if you change your mind."

The lights dimmed and the Healer soon left the room … Hermione was not aware of the time passing as she stared into space or into the dark depths of her mind consumed by fever …

So this was it … this was the end.

In the clarity of mind that comes with waiting for death, knowing it is inevitable, Hermione reviewed a lifetime's decisions. She recalled the surprise and excitement she had felt when she had received her Hogwarts letter, the hope of having finally found a world where she belonged …

She remembered the troll advancing on her with its club raised; Harry and Ron surging out of nowhere to defend her … The Basilisk's glowing eyes reflected in Penelope Clearwater's pocket mirror …

She remembered finding herself facing who she thought was a dangerous murderer, in the Shrieking Shack … A hundred Dementors advancing on Harry and herself … Fighting twelve Death Eaters in the Department of Mysteries ...

All those times, she had been a step away from death … she had resigned herself to die, so many times, only to be saved at the last second, when she had finally accepted her fate.

Then an entirely different set of memories came back to her, another phase of her life …

The mysterious thrill she had felt the first time she looked into the eyes of the man who would own her forever … the relief, the sense of peace when he had claimed her at last …

Being attacked by Dementors, on one of her Auror missions, being unable to gather a single happy thought to summon a Patronus, as Ron lay unconscious next to her, and finally calling upon the one memory she should have considered anything but happy …

… and she recalled the joy with which she had accepted to join the very group of people she fought against, because that was the wish of the one she loved.

Hermione remembered Voldemort's cruel gaze as he used Legilimency on her to verify her loyalties, and the terrible moment when she had thought it was all over … she recalled throwing the _Crucio_ at Professor Snape; she remembered casting the Killing Curse on a human being for the first time, and her delight at its success … she found herself reliving the fear she had felt when she stared up at the Dark Mark in the sky for the first time, and the pride when she saw the same symbol burnt into her own skin … the sense of having been finally found worthy.

She recalled taunting her friends; she heard Ron snarl, _Wouldn't put it past you_ … and the hateful look on Harry's face as she revealed to him who and what she was; she heard him shout, _I HATE YOU!_ How she had laughed in her former best friend's face when he said he never thought she would 'sink so low' … you mean so_ high_, she had thought silently, her face expressing nothing but mockery …

She remembered glancing at herself in the mirror, only to see brown eyes staring back at her through slits in a black mask … the betrayed looks her parents had given her when she told them she had joined the Dark Forces and the horror in her mother's eyes as she deliberately flaunted the immorality of her actions …

And she regretted nothing.

Surprisingly, she didn't regret turning to the Dark side. She felt no remorse for having joined the Death Eaters and all her subsequent actions: knowingly arranging the deaths of her colleagues, unscrupulously killing Muggles … all in the short span of three months.

She would have expected imminent death to bring back her no longer existent conscience, but it didn't.

But there was one thing Hermione _did_ regret, and she would have given anything to change it … the one thing that was the reason she was here right now, in the St Mungo's ward for the condemned … of course, she had been so naïve; she should have foreseen this all along. If only she could go back, she would not repeat the same mistake … if only she had the chance … she would destroy the person who was responsible for this.

When she had looked into Narcissa Malfoy's face in Diagon Alley … if only she had known she was facing her would-be murderer.

Hermione regretted not taking the chance to annihilate that woman on the first possible occasion. She considered herself a true Death Eater now, no more only a spy – then why, oh, _why_ hadn't she acted on the motto of the Dark Order? _Obstacles exist to be eliminated_ … why hadn't she eliminated this obstacle before it had the time to eliminate _her_?

She had been so careless … how many times had she accused Harry of being reckless, when she herself acted just as irresponsibly … would it take _this_ for her to finally realise it? Would she have to learn from her own mistakes – which were, in this case, fatal?

Only when she was about to die did she finally admit to herself that she had been stupid. Difficult, that, to admit you are wrong, when you are Hermione Granger.

Oh, she had learnt the lesson, certainly. But would she ever have the opportunity to put it into practice? Obviously not. It was too late. She would never have the chance to rectify her errors. She did not have the _time_. She would die first.

She would die a traitor, abandoned by her family and friends … the family and friends she had abandoned first. She would die alone, having turned her back on her own blood, having deserted her only friends to help the enemy. Here she was, alone and abandoned, abandoned even by the one for whom she had done it all …

At least she had been happy, for a brief period of time. She had experienced genuine happiness; she knew what it was like to love someone and to be appreciated by him in return … it was more than she had ever hoped for. To know true love …

Love.

Love that would lead her to death's door.

Suddenly, Bellatrix Lestrange's face flashed in her mind, with the ever-present glint of ferocity, of fervent _faith_ in her heavily lidded eyes. _**She**__ didn't give up so easily_, Hermione thought abruptly. Bellatrix had spent thirteen years in Azkaban, Dementors draining any positive emotion she could have, and yet … and yet she had waited, her faith never wavering … confident and sure that the Dark Lord would return, as impossible as it must have sounded, when everyone thought he was dead … Bellatrix had refused to accept her tragic destiny. Bellatrix had _believed_. It was not mere hope; no, it had been certainty.

Bellatrix had drawn strength from that faith; she had faced the worst horrors of her own mind, every minute of day and night, for thirteen years, getting strength from the assurance that the Dark Lord would return and take her away from that terrible place. Bellatrix had coped with the horror and pain of the present thanks to the hope – no, the _knowledge_ – of a better future, a future where she would be reunited with her Master … the one she loved, the one she lived for … because it was inevitable. Her faith, so strong it had been that not even Dementors could take it away. And Bellatrix's faith had not been mistaken. Bellatrix had been right.

Bellatrix, with whom she had felt an almost instant kinship, an instantaneous understanding. Bellatrix, who was so much like herself …

_Why do you doubt, Hermione? Why do you give up already?_

Bellatrix. Her friend, her counterpart, her equal in everything but rank. Bellatrix, who had always been the Dark Lord's most loyal servant, who had joined him out of _love_ and whose selfless loyalty was unrivalled. Bellatrix, whose devotion to Lord Voldemort could only be compared to …

… Hermione's devotion to his second-in-command.

_Do you _really_ think he will let you die?_

She hoped not.

_Hope? Mere hope? Is that all the faith you have in him?_

If she could move, Hermione would have jumped off the bed. _Was_ it? Did she trust him so little, after all this time … after everything?

Did she think Lucius wouldn't find a way to save her? Did she think it was beyond his power?

Before Hermione knew it, something ignited in her brown eyes … it was the same glint of vehemence that was ever-present in the eyes of the only other woman to be part of the Dark Order.

"This isn't the way it was meant to be," Hermione spoke aloud, and her voice unknowingly took on the harsh, assured tone Bellatrix Lestrange had used in her darkest moments. "I refuse to accept it. I won't die."

Until the last minute she lived, until the last breath she took … she would _believe_. Even if it was in vain. But it wouldn't be, she was sure. She was confident, as confident as Bellatrix had been of her Master's return.

"I'll wait," Hermione whispered into the darkness.

-

Meanwhile, at Malfoy manor …

"Narcissa, come back here this instant – _come back here, I say_ –" Lucius bawled after his wife, a furious expression on his face.

The blonde witch purposely ignored him. Sneering disdainfully, she turned her back to her husband and climbed the staircase that led to her private apartments.

Seeing that she did not obey him, he rushed after her with a thunderous clatter and threw the door open with such force that it bounced back off the wall.

"What's the matter, Lucius?" Narcissa sounded annoyed.

He swept silently into the room where Narcissa was sitting in an armchair, surrounded by lavender-coloured upholstery. The flowery scent of her perfume hung in the air.

He shut the door behind him. "So!" he said, approaching his wife threateningly, "What's this I hear about you poisoning our guests?"

Narcissa paled slightly, though her thin eyebrows knit together in puzzlement. "What are you going on about?"

"Do not play games with me, Narcissa," Lucius said warningly. "You know exactly what I speak of."

Several emotions – mostly hatred and resentment – flickered across his wife's face before she managed to get her expression back under control and into a calm, disdainful look. "But why do you care? Surely that Mudblood was of no great importance –" she started coolly.

"The _Mudblood_, as you say, is the Dark Lord's most valuable informant. What in Hades did you think you were doing? Are you _insane_?"

Narcissa sneered. "Oh, come on, Lucius, you don't really expect me to believe that is the reason you are so angry, do you? I am not that stupid."

Lucius froze. He should have expected that his wife would eventually get a clue as to what was going on … "It does not matter _why_ I am angry. I simply want to know what you did," he demanded.

"There is nothing you can do to save the filthy girl – you will never find an antidote because you don't know which poison I used!" she said triumphantly.

"Won't I?" he hissed. "I will, for you shall tell me."

"No, I will not," said Narcissa.

His eyes narrowed. "Did you say _no_? You dare to defy me, woman?"

She stared defiantly at him.

He slapped her across the face.

"Have you forgotten that you are my _wife_, and thus, honour-bound to obey me? Have you forgotten the age-old traditions that set us apart from the disgraceful likes of the Weasleys?"

"You broke your part of the marriage vow," Narcissa replied, bristling. "You cannot expect me to heed mine. You betrayed me. You have no right to demand anything from me when _you_ left me for a Mudblood Auror!" She stared at him, her eyes almost popping out with outrage. "Why _did_ you choose an Auror, Lucius? Does the risk of waking up in Azkaban make it more exciting?" she said harshly, reminding him of who her sister was. "Is that it, Lucius? Were you so _bored _with me that you had to seek that sort of adventure?"

His eyes glittered. "Who I choose to honour with my company is my business, as I never swore fidelity to you. I only vowed to protect and provide for you, which I have done to the best of my abilities in spite of your lack of enthusiasm about fulfilling your conjugal duties. You have never lacked in anything under this roof. So as you can see, the oath you accuse me of breaking … I did not break my part of it, unlike you, Narcissa, who never did honour yours."

She gaped. "I have always been faithful to you –" she started to protest, to deny the horrid, and true, accusation, but he didn't give her the chance.

"Do you even recall the ceremony that took place in the chamber beneath this one two decades ago? Do you recall the words you spoke when you knelt before me on that _momentous_ evening?"

"You know I don't speak French, Lucius!" she said furiously. "You didn't bother telling me what the oath meant before I said it, and how was I to know that your family has such an awful, outdated concept of what marriage should be? You must realise that it's completely behind the times even in our world!"

Lucius could not hide his astonishment at these words. He had never suspected that his wife had such ridiculous _Muggle_ notions …

"Narcissa,my family is the most ancient magical line on this island. It is the one that has held the most power … surely you are aware of this? You were a Black, not the spawn of commoners, although I do find astounding that the Blacks did not see fit to teach their daughters the tongue of the nobility …"

"Don't you dare insult the House of Black!" screeched Narcissa.

"You are no longer part of that family. You haven't been for over twenty years, Narcissa," he reminded. "Has it been so long that you have forgotten about the blood that now flows through _your_ veins?"

"I never asked for it," said Narcissa. "Not at that price. If you had told me what it _meant_ –"

"Would you have broken our engagement if I had? Would you have preferred to become a traitor to your blood rather than swear obedience to me?"

"Yes," she hissed, "I would have. Oh, but I bet _she_ would love to give you that oath …"

The corner of his mouth rose appreciatively. "Yes, I believe she would indeed. As it is, she never swore it yet she abides by it better than you do, Narcissa._ Now tell me what you put in her drink!_"

There was a hint of fear in Narcissa's blue eyes, but the set of her jaw was resolute. "No."

His cold eyes became slits of fury. "YOU REFUSE TO OBEY ME, NARCISSA? I AM THE DARK LORD'S SECOND, ALL THE DEATH EATERS HEED MY COMMAND, YET MY OWN _WIFE_ DARES DEFY ME?" he roared at her. He pulled out his wand. "Then I'll teach you to treat you husband with respect! _Crucio!_"

In the second before the curse hit her, Narcissa looked shocked. Then she collapsed with a scream.

After some time, Lucius lifted the curse. Narcissa got to her feet shakily, staring at him in disbelief.

"What has she done to you?" she said, gasping for breath, "Look what you've become, Lucius! Using that curse on your own _family_ … I thought being a Death Eater meant torturing _Muggles_!"

"_Family?_" he repeated the word mockingly. "You never were worthy of the name Malfoy; I wonder how I could have failed to see this earlier."

Narcissa's blue eyes widened. "What lies has that girl told you? Crafty witch, that one, to pollute your mind like that!"

"Hermione merely opened my eyes to what I should have seen all along! You have always attempted to take charge; you strive to control me … and I was foolish enough not to put you back in your place."

"Control you? I never …" Narcissa trailed off, her eyes wide in fake innocence. "It was for your own benefit – I was only trying to be of assistance!"

"Yet to be a _hindrance_ is all you accomplished. Need I remind you that it was _your _decision to send Draco to Hogwarts, where he became too preoccupied by his childish rivalry with Harry Potter to actually learn anything of use? I listened to your flawed judgement, resulting in my heir becoming what he is today – a spoiled, good-for-nothing brat whose only concern is to waste substantial amounts of gold for the most puerile purposes … it would not have been so if he had gone to Durmstrang, for he would never have met Potter and all that riff-raff Hogwarts is known to harbour, nor would he have grown up under the _guidance_ of a Head of House who turned out to be nothing but a traitor."

His wife looked like she was about to retort, but he did not give her the chance. "That's just one example of the occasions where I have listened to you, with highly vexing consequences," he continued. "Do not tell me you never deliberately attempted to influence me into acting accordingly to your wishes."

"Don't tell me _she_ doesn't!" shouted Narcissa. "I remember what that reporter – Skeeter, was it? – wrote about her. That girl's a devious wench who has nothing but ambition on her mind, and if she was two-timing both Harry Potter and Viktor Krum at fourteen …" she broke off, looking disgusted.

"Do you truly believe everything you hear, Narcissa?" said Lucius. "Then I assure you, Skeeter was entirely incorrect. In actual fact, Hermione is quite the opposite of you. She never argues with me, never criticises, never questions. She does not contest my authority as you always have. She would be the ideal consort, the exemplary Malfoy wife … but of course," he sneered, "_you_ currently occupy that position, though you are doing a rather mediocre job at it."

"Are you saying she is worthier than I? She, a Mudblood!" Narcissa sounded very offended.

"Worthier than you, she certainly is. Not that she aspires to your position … not at all … I daresay she is quite content with her current standing."

"I find that hard to believe, knowing you … you are a cruel man, Lucius, you regard a woman as no more than some kind of – of _servant_! In all our time together, you never made me feel anything but pain!" Her voice grew very high-pitched.

"It is not my trouble if you never cooperated," he said coldly. "You should have known better than to attempt to take control."

"No witch in her right mind would put up with your domineering tendencies. Not even _she_, I am sure."

"Oh, really?" he scoffed. "I believe my – ah – '_domineering tendencies_' are what keeps her from defying me … she craves a man's control in her life, and she realises what an honour it is that I deign to touch her. She never denies me. Her only wish is to please me and she does … like you never did. Although I can recall a time when you were as eager to put up with these tendencies as she is …"

"She is a stupid Mudblood who has no self-respect."

"She is everything a Mudblood ought to be, and you should have no doubt, Narcissa, that I would never have allowed her near me if she wasn't."

Narcissa looked disgusted, but it seemed that she could not stop herself from asking the question to which she did _not_ want to know the answer. "How many times have you slept with her, then?" she inquired with the morbid curiosity of a practised gossiper.

"Why, Narcissa, one would almost think you are _jealous_," he drawled. He grasped his wife's chin and pulled her head up, forcing her to look into his eyes, which were glinting with cruel amusement. "Too many times to count," he said maliciously.

Narcissa cringed and backed away. "How could you do this to me, Lucius? How could you, when I was faithful to you all these years –" she sounded tearful.

"Fortunately for you, or I would not have hesitated to remove you from the way – dishonour or not – as you are but an inconvenience."

Narcissa flinched and a very hateful look appeared in her eyes. "Crafty woman, that Mudblood … she has seduced you so adeptly –"

"Her, seduce _me_?" He let out a condescending laugh. "I would say it is quite the other way around. She is an Auror, you know, yet she has never attempted to talk me into changing sides. To the contrary, she joined the Dark Lord on my insistence."

"I never thought you would stoop as low as to actually care about a Mudblood," spat Narcissa. "I must have overestimated you."

"Dear, dear, Hermione was right – you Blacks truly are intractable," said Lucius. "How many times need I tell you that your opinion is of no importance to me? The days when I let you influence me are over, Narcissa. Now tell – me – which – poison – you – used!"

"No," she said, her voice shaking.

He slapped her again, with such force that she lost her balance and fell, hitting her head on the corner of a table in the process. She crumpled to the floor, where she lay bleeding from the head, but still conscious. Her face was twisted with pain, yet she glared up at him obstinately. "I won't tell. Never," she muttered, waves of pain shooting through her head as she moved her jaw to speak.

Lucius smiled coldly. "Very good, very good … have it your way. _Imperio!_"

And Narcissa felt her mind empty of all thought … the anger, the pain, the hatred – it all vanished … _tell me which poison you put in Hermione's drink … tell me … just say it …_

"Essence of Pharaonic Serpent's venom mixed with cyanide."

The words burst from Narcissa's mouth involuntarily, and the dream-like state was lifted abruptly. The horrendous pain in her head returned, as did the ache left by the Cruciatus Curse, along with the realisation that her trouble had been all for nothing. And the realisation that she meant nothing to her husband anymore, if he had no qualms about using the Imperius Curse on her … she curled up on the floor, tears running down her cheeks.

"I should have known," Lucius said softly. "How predictable of you to use the slowest and most painful method of death you could find. It tends to slip my mind that you are Bellatrix's sister … just as you repeatedly disregard the fact that I am the Dark Lord's highest-ranking follower."

For the first time, Lucius could see fear in his wife's eyes. Fear that should have been there all along. He had avoided using his position as the Dark Lord's second to obtain deference from his wife and son before – but no longer. He fully intended to make use of his power from now on.

He smiled triumphantly at the woman he had once regarded as an equal. "Not to worry, Narcissa … I will ensure that you do not disregard it ever again, and if you do, I will not fail to remind you as frequently as necessary. But as tempted as I am to simply leave you here …"

"You wouldn't," she said weakly, panic mingling with the pain in her eyes. "I am your wife!"

"Unfortunately. If it wasn't dishonour in our society to kill one's _family_, I would have left you to die as you deserve."

With one last disgusted look at his wife, Lucius left the room.

"Coddy!"

The house-elf appeared in the doorframe, took one look at Narcissa's bleeding form and gasped, looking up fearfully at his irate master.

"Clean up this … _mess_," Lucius commanded, gesturing at his sobbing wife on the floor. "Give her a Healing Draught and make sure she does not leave her rooms until my return."

"Yes, Master," said the house-elf, hurrying to tend to the unfortunate lady of the manor.

Lucius walked down the stairs and into a corridor, emerging in the drawing room, which still bore the Christmas decorations. He stood by the wall where the tapestry representing the Malfoy coat of arms hung.

He placed his hand on the crest on the wall. "As Head of the House of Malfoy, I demand entrance to the secret chamber."

The wall glowed green for a second. To the left of the tapestry, a narrow staircase materialised, leading into an opening in the floor.

-

Lucius stepped into the dark room where greenish gas lamps flared to life instantly, revealing the chamber that housed the largest collection of poisons and Dark artefacts in the wizarding world.

He glanced around the chamber that was illuminated by torches the walls and greenish lamps hanging from the ceiling. Down here, he felt in his element. The room pulsed with Dark magic, calling for him to use it … it was in his blood. The various Dark artefacts, books and scrolls called to him, encouraging him to use the powers his family had relied on for generations.

He could not stop thinking about the reason he was here. He had had a hard time preventing himself from murdering his wife – it would have been so easy, just two words … two words were all it would take. Two words and it would be over, she would be out of the way … but he knew he could not do that. Family honour was very important in pure-blood society, and he did not wish to disgrace the name Malfoy. If he were to kill Narcissa, he would lose the respect of his fellow Death Eaters … not a wise idea.

He could not get rid of Narcissa, but he would do the next best thing: act as though she did not exist. After all, it wasn't like she could do anything about it …

Inevitably, his thoughts were drawn back to the woman whose life was in danger at this very moment. Shortly after midnight, he had Apparated to her house to check on her – only to find it deserted and, by all signs, left in haste. He had found a few nearly illegible words scrawled on a clipboard on her bedside table, and as he read them, he had felt a sharp pang of dread. _Poison …_ _St Mungo's … _

He had been worried. Who could have poisoned Hermione at the party? From what he had seen, she had been sitting at Bellatrix's table, but there was no reason the woman would have done such a thing. No, Bellatrix would never do something the Dark Lord would not approve of.

He had Apparated back to the manor, only to be met by a snivelling Coddy. The house-elf had confessed, crying hysterically, that Narcissa had paid a rather lengthy visit to the secret chamber last night, apparently researching inconspicuous poisons, and had carried through an elaborate plan to kill "the young miss" by mixing her drink with "some very bad stuff". Furious, Lucius had gone to confront Narcissa while the house-elf was dutifully punishing himself.

Recently, Lucius had found his thoughts constantly occupied by the woman who gave herself to him with such unreserved surrender and absolute trust. The woman who had given him everything. For him, she had left her whole life behind. For him, he had turned against everyone and everything she knew …

He remembered what had attracted him to her the first time he had looked at her … when he had looked into those brown eyes full of kindness and compassion, before they had narrowed in defiance, he had felt, inexplicably, that this was a woman who could _understand_ him.

He had seen the loyalty and selflessness with which she fought for Harry Potter, and he wanted that loyalty to be directed at himself and him alone … he wanted to touch her, to possess her, to command her … he wanted those brown eyes to look up at him not in defiance or hatred or fear, but in surrender and devotion …

And he had succeeded. Somewhere along the way, she fell to his charms, earlier than he expected, long before he knew it … now she no longer looked that way at anyone but him.

He knew from Draco's constant whining that Hermione had been haughty and independent, insolent enough to look down her nose at her pure-blooded classmates at Hogwarts, which made it even more satisfying to have power over her. She may have been the best at school; she may have become a rather powerful Auror and an even more powerful Dark witch, but she was clever enough to realise how far above her he was. And it felt good to have an Auror in such a position. Because she _was_ one of the Aurors, these creatures no Death Eaters could refrain from fearing …

In return, he wanted to give her pleasure as he possessed her; he wanted her to enjoy it … he wanted her to care about him …

He had succeeded. And he had gone further. He had turned her against everyone she cared about; he had made her betray Potter, Weasley and her own parents. He had converted her, a witch of Muggle blood, to the Dark Lord's cause. She had been his ticket back into the Dark Lord's favour … he had redeemed himself in the Dark Lord's eyes by bringing someone as useful as she, an Auror who was close to Potter, into the fold.

But now that he owned her mind, body and soul, he felt the urge to protect her. He _worried _about her. Somewhere along the way, he had grown to _care_ about her. He had become attached to her. He had become accustomed to waking in the morning with her warm body snuggled against him, her bushy head resting on his shoulder in trustful abandon …

He found it exhilarating to be with her. He had never suspected that a woman's body could be a source of such pleasure. Narcissa had been withholding something from him, and when he found it with someone else, she tried to steal that from him, too. He would never forgive her for it. Narcissa had never been accepting of his will …

But Hermione … the expression in her eyes often suggested that she would do anything he said. She was a powerful witch in her own right, and that made her surrender even more pleasurable. It was a power that no Muggle's suffering could rival, sweeter than _Imperio_, more powerful than the dizzying rush of _Avada Kedavra_ …

He had thought he would grow bored of her, that his fierce desire for her would wane. Instead, he had become attached to her in a more … permanent way. And the desire hadn't waned in the slightest. Instead of weakening with time, it had turned into something else – something more meaningful, more lasting. A mistress was, normally, a temporary attachment, but she … he wanted to keep her by his side for eternity. He would let nothing and no one take her away from him – not death and definitely not Narcissa.

Somewhere along the way, he had grown to care about her … to _love_ her. They were remarkably compatible, he had realised … she enjoyed everything he did. He took pleasure in controlling her, and it was clear that she _wanted_ to be controlled by him …

And now, Hermione – _his_ Hermione – was in danger of death. No immediate danger, thankfully, but still – to imagine what she had to be going through …

There was no antidote to the specific poisons Narcissa had used. His wife had been careful, he had to concede – she had cleverly chosen to combine two of the few poisons that had irreparable effects. How she had done it without his knowledge, he still had no idea. But in her simple-minded hatred, she could not contend herself with merely killing her enemy … no, she had to make her rival suffer.

And that had been her mistake. These two particular substances, when combined, would provide a certain death, but no earlier than 48 hours after being ingested. Which gave him ample time to find a cure, if there was one – but since there wasn't, he would use Dark magic to nullify the poison's effects.

He sifted through the Dark Arts texts. There was no _antidote_ to that poison – only a potent Dark potion could reverse its effects. Now all he had to do was find the appropriate potion among the hundreds listed in the books and scrolls on the shelves. If only Hermione was here, she could have helped with the books …

-

When he came across a particular scroll hours later, he smiled in satisfaction. This would do. The ingredients required to brew to this potion were … available. Made from the contents of the poison itself, combined with the blood of the person who had administered the poison to the victim, along with a special infusion made from the blood of a snake … it was the Darkest of magic.

He set a small cauldron of solid silver on a table. With a flick of his wand, the cauldron was filled with water.

This ritual was quite simple; it was a rudimentary piece of Dark magic, concocted from powerful, yet in this case simple to obtain, ingredients.

Lucius prodded the bottom of the cauldron with his wand, lighting a magical fire beneath it. In about a minute, the water was boiling; its surface bubbled and set off steam. One more minute, and the water was setting off fiery particles that sparkled like diamonds.

He raised his wand high over the cauldron, aimed at nothing in particular, and spoke in a strong, commanding tone. "_Elements of the poison, bestowers of pain and death, you will rescind your effects._"

He took a phial from a nearby shelf, a phial labelled _Essence of Pharaonic Serpent's venom_, and let three drops fall into the bubbling water. There was a hissing noise; the surface split, sparks flying in all directions, and the water turned an opaque, fathomless black colour.

He poured the same amount from another phial labelled _Cyanide_ into the cauldron. There was a splinter in the surface again, accompanied by more sparks, but the liquid made no visible change. It remained black like a raven's feathers.

He then pulled out a vial from the pocket of his robes. This vial was filled with fresh, bright red blood. He had gathered it from the floor in Narcissa's room, where she had conveniently cracked her skull (not that such an accident was enough to kill a magical being – no, unfortunately it wasn't).

He spoke the next part of the invocation. "_Blood of the murderer, unwillingly given, you will revive your victim._"

He emptied the vial's contents into the cauldron. The potion instantly turned bright red.

"_Blood of the serpent, donated in ignorance, you will transmit your life-force to the one who swallows you._"

He uncorked a bottle filled with a thick, crimson liquid, and poured about half of it into the simmering red potion.

A cloud of fume, sapphire-blue in colour, rose from the cauldron with a sharp hiss. It uncoiled, snake-like, and went up towards the ceiling. When it cleared, the liquid in the cauldron had turned a vivid, toxic-looking blue.

Lucius poured most of the potion into a glass vial until it was full, sealed it, then cleared the rest away with a flick of his wand and exited the chamber. Now he had to find a way to sneak into St Mungo's Hospital.


	14. The Dark Side of History

— CHAPTER FOURTEEN —

_**The Dark Side of History**_

"_Lumos!_"

He had had to use the Imperius Curse on a few mediwizards to order them to lead him to the ward where Hermione was 'resting', if it could be called that. He had then erased all memory of his and Hermione's presence at the hospital and sent them on their way. Now, in the beam of light emanating from his wand, he could discern Hermione as the only patient in the dark, dreary ward. Her brown hair, looking tangled and damp with sweat, was strewn out on the pillow on the side of her head, making her look younger than she really was. Her eyelids were closed and her breathing came in short, sharp gasps.

Her weak cries of pain were mixed with incoherent, fiercely hissed words. Her entire body was trembling, and she looked paler than the white duvet on which her hands were clenched.

He watched as she turned to her side, muttering unintelligibly under her breath. It sounded like a weak, yet unexpectedly vicious hiss.

If the poison had taken full effect – and it clearly had, because many hours had passed since she had ingested it – then she was having not only a fever, but also hallucinations. She was not quite asleep, yet not awake either. In the zone between dreams and reality, she was both reliving her worst memories and seeing her worst fears come true in her mind.

He reached over and brushed a strand of matted brown hair from her face. His fingers grazed her forehead, which was hot with fever.

Hermione shifted at the familiar touch, but her eyes remained closed.

He moved his hand down to her neck, checking her pulse. It was weak, almost negligible.

He took the vial out a pocket of his robes. Gently, he pushed Hermione's jaw open. Even in this state of semi-consciousness, she complied with his will … it made him smile, really, as he poured the blue liquid down her throat.

If the potion didn't work … he didn't want to think about that notion. No, it was out of the question. The Dark Arts never failed.

The possibility of Hermione's death had led him to realise some things, namely that he could not quite imagine life without her. He had grown attached to her, and the very idea of losing her … it frightened him to the core. If she were to die … he did not know what he would do.

He enjoyed being with her and he craved her presence when she was away. With her, he felt in control. Through her earnest admiration and unquestioning deference, she made him feel so powerful … without doing it intentionally, she flattered him, she boosted his confidence …

He stood by her, waiting for the potion to take effect. When she began to stir, he felt very much relieved. It had worked.

Hermione felt like she was awakening from a nightmare, only to realise that it had not been a nightmare but merciless reality. She could feel the fever cooling down, the pain lessening … she coughed; there was an absolutely horrid taste in her mouth, and she had the urge to retch, but she knew she shouldn't.

"Hermione," whispered the voice that haunted her dreams.

She opened her eyes, and the intense, zealous glow in them was startling. "You came," she said in wonder. "You cared enough to go to the trouble of breaking into the hospital to save me …"

"You are more useful to the Dark Lord – and to me – while you are alive," he said simply. Then he moved closer to her and touched her cheek.

"I have grown quite fond of you," he whispered to her in the dark, leaning over her, his glossy hair falling into her face, tickling her. "You could almost claim to be an obsession of my mind and a presence I find comforting by my side … or in more sentimental terms …_ je t'aime, Hermione_."

Hermione suddenly wondered if she was approaching death and it was playing tricks on her mind. Did people hear voices just before they died? No one had survived to tell the tale. But of course, she knew very well that she wasn't dying – not anymore – nor was she hallucinating. She had really heard him say _that_. Never in a thousand years would she have thought it possible …

Sure, she had known that he cared about her. He would not touch her otherwise. Why would he, when she wasn't particularly attractive _and_ a Muggle-born?

But she had never expected him to actually say those words, the words no one had ever said to her – and meant them – in her life, the words she had dreamt of hearing for the past eight years … but she had never dared hope she would actually hear them, especially not from him.

She raised a hand that was still burning with fever. He grasped it in his cool one, which felt uncomfortably cold to her right now, but she squeezed it as strongly as she could, thanking him for telling her what she had always wanted to hear.

But even through her shocked elation, the rational side of her mind would not let her believe his words as much as she wanted to. Watching the major events of her life like a Muggle movie as she lay dying had given her a new perspective, a more objective one, of what had happened since he had become … whatever he was to her.

A little voice in her head reminded her that she was Hermione Granger; she hadn't accepted things that made no sense without question at school, so why should she now? She hadn't become gullible, has she? "You … you tortured me … you threatened to kill me …"

"And these were no empty threats," he told her. "I meant those words as I mean these. All is in how we define that word, Hermione … the day you cease to respect me as your superior, the day you defy me or let another touch you –" His eyes flashed with cruelty ready to be unleashed, "– will be the day I kill you."

She stared at him for a few seconds, then she declared bluntly, somewhat accusingly, "You love the power you have over me."

His mouth quirked and she discerned appreciation in his eyes. "Once again you demonstrate your exceeding cleverness … you truly are clever, Hermione."

"I wish I wasn't. I wish I didn't understand … this isn't about me at all, is it? You're addicted to the way I make you feel …"

"There is no difference, as it is only with you that I feel this way. And there are some other benefits, but as you know, I was never able to resist the lure of power, and although this does not provide the same thrill that I find in torturing Muggles … this is power of a different sort, yet it feels no less sweet."

"You're scaring me," she whispered, wishing he would stop saying these awful things.

"Am I? I did not intend to …" His voice sounded smooth and unrepentant. "What I am should not frighten you any longer, now that you have followed me into the Darkness. It is those who mean you harm who ought to tremble, as I shall be no more forgiving towards them than the Dark Lord …"

He moved his hand through her hair, smoothing the tousled brown mass. "Sleep now, Hermione, and trust me with your safety as you have before. No lasting harm has come to you and none will."

There was nothing kind in his smile, but she chose to believe him anyway. She surrendered to peaceful slumber.

-

Hermione woke in a richly furnished room with oak-panelled walls and a high ceiling, with a serpent-shaped chandelier hanging above. She was feeling entirely healthy, as though the poisoning had never happened. _Am I dead?_ she wondered. _Am I in paradise?_

Brusquely, the events of the last twenty-four hours returned to her memory. The poison, St Mungo's, the terminal ward, thinking she would die … then the moment of faith that erased all doubts … the pain, the fever, seeing her worst nightmares come to life in the eye of her mind … and that disgusting blue liquid; an antidote of the Dark kind, and she honestly did not want to know what its contents had been. She had studied Dark Potions enough to know the type of ingredients that went into them.

After a quick glance at her surroundings, she had guessed where she was.

"How is Miss feeling?" inquired a squeaky, high-pitched voice. It was Coddy, the house-elf who had led her into the Malfoy grounds for the first time and who had tried to warn her of Narcissa's machinations last night.

"I'm quite fine, actually," said Hermione.

The house-elf rushed over to her. "Oh, Miss is alive … Coddy is so happy, Coddy was scared that Miss would die … Coddy knows that Miss is Muggle-born, but Coddy likes Miss …" Coddy's voice dropped to a conspiring whisper. "Master likes Miss too …"

Hermione smiled. "I know, Coddy, I know … he told me."

The elf stared at her for a second, then clapped its tiny hands. "Coddy is happy for Miss," it whispered, "but Miss must be hungry. It is time for miss's meal. Coddy will be right back." And the house-elf vanished with a _pop_.

The elf reappeared a moment later, carrying a tray of what Hermione assumed to be her breakfast. She thanked the creature – who looked close to tears, as though it had never heard the words 'thank you' before, which was probably true – and ate quickly. The food was high standard, she noticed, not that she had expected anything less.

Hermione got to her feet, stretching her muscles like she did every morning – a habit she had picked up at the Auror Academy. She was still dressed in the red robes she had been wearing when she went to St Mungo's, and they were quite rumpled. She pulled out her wand and proceeded to cast a wide-scale Ironing Charm that removed most of the wrinkles.

Hermione caught sight of a dressing table in a corner. _Excellent_. She moved towards the mirror – and only then did she realise she was still wearing the emerald pendant. She hadn't taken the trouble of removing it before going to St Mungo's … and she decided she did not want to take it off, at all. Fellow Ministry witches would ask questions, of course, but she didn't care. She would lie; it wouldn't be the first time. She would wear it proudly everywhere she went.

She conjured a comb to brush her matted hair. It took her almost five minutes until her brown mane was neat and tidy again. Her hair was no longer frizzy; it had lost its bushiness years ago, but it remained dense and tangled easily. The problem with her hair was that she had too much of it. While most girls complained about their hair always lying flat and looking dull, Hermione's was the opposite: her copious amounts of brown hair _never_ lay flat. The wavy strands, which reached her upper back in length, flew around her in all directions when she was duelling – quite a problem for an Auror. Tonks – bless her soul – had once suggested she cut it short, but Hermione had refused steadfastly, declaring she did not want to "look like a boy". Or like Harry, to be more precise.

Hermione knew no matter how rigorously she brushed it, her hair would never be sleek and reflect the light like Lucius's did. But … well, he said he liked it that way, because it suited her "wild and feral nature". She was his opposite in that aspect. His refined composure, his cool, calculated attitude contrasted greatly with her intense, spontaneous personality. As a team, though, their differences complemented each other.

Her hair done, Hermione sauntered over to the window and moved the velvet curtains aside. She blinked, her eyes glistening in the sudden sunshine streaming into the room.

The sun was rising over scenery more beautiful than anything she had ever seen. The bare trees stood against the clear blue sky, their branches shifting slightly in the wind. An area of water stretched before her, possibly the lake Lucius had mentioned was located behind the manor. A paler reflection of the sky, blue with a silvery sheen, the water undulated in soft waves as a flock of some sort of aquatic birds swam serenely on the surface. Squinting, Hermione realised they were swans, an assortment of pure white and jet-black swans. Hermione thought she liked the black ones more, they looked so graceful and mysterious at the same time …

The treeless, grassy lands that stretched for miles in the distance beyond the wooded park were covered in snow, a thin white coating on the meadows of green grass.

Such beautiful landscape … but cold, so undeniably cold. A cold beauty, like everything in this manor and around it; like the manor itself and its lord. In that, too, she was his opposite. She might have learnt to assume poise in public just like he did; she might have been able to imitate the nonchalant conduct and speech that characterised him, but deep down, she remained what she had always been: a woman of war, a fighter with a core of fire.

Suddenly feeling tired, Hermione sank back into the bed and fell asleep.

She awoke again – sometime around noon – to the sound of voices arguing just outside the door. She heard a thunderous voice roar:

"ARE YOU DEFYING ME AGAIN, NARCISSA? DO YOU NOT REMEMBER WHAT HAPPENED LAST TIME?"

"_Go on, then, I dare you!_" shrieked a female voice.

Oh, that woman really had no sense of survival. Not that Hermione pitied her – no, not at all.

There was a crash, a scream of pain followed by a cruel laugh, then the sound of someone slamming a door, and finally, silence.

The door to the room opened with a _click_, and a smirking Lucius appeared on the threshold, brushing stray specks of dust off his robes.

"Did you murder her?" Hermione asked hopefully.

"Alas, no. The customs are very strict in this aspect, you see – I am a man of honour, and as murder within the family is prohibited …"

"Pity," said Hermione, sounding disappointed. _No matter,_ she thought, _I will deal with that woman._

He raised his eyebrows, amused. "You hate her so much?"

"She tried to kill me!" she exclaimed. "How could I not hate her?"

They looked at each other for a moment, then Hermione leapt up and rushed over to him.

He wrapped his arms around the dainty woman and pressed her to his chest with a force that was almost painful.

Hermione understood that this was his way of expressing he cared about her … the sheer force of the embrace reflected the emotion he felt towards her. She remembered his confession from last night, in that gloomy ward at the wizard hospital … he had told her that he loved her.

"I feared I would lose you," he said softly. He held her tightly, and she clung to him, her face moist with tears.

There was a new fierceness in Hermione's brown eyes as she wrapped her arms around his neck. "I had no doubt you would find a way," she breathed. "The Healer told me there was no hope left … that I was going to die … but I refused to believe it. I knew you would not leave me there. I knew you would succeed … and I was right."

He looked at his mistress in mild astonishment. The intensity of her stare, the passion in her eyes … it reminded him oddly of Bellatrix Lestrange. But Bellatrix never looked at him that way – thank heavens.

Hermione closed her eyes contentedly.

She knew what it was like to love someone and to be loved in return.

Love had brought her to death's door … and back.

**-**

"Coddy told me – he seems to have taken a strange liking to you," Lucius said when she asked him about how he knew what had happened to her.

"I have noticed," she said quietly. "He acts around me in the same way Dobby used to do around Harry – I mean _Potter_." Hermione had to remind herself Harry wasn't her best friend anymore, no longer a friend but an enemy …

Lucius scowled horribly at the mention – and the memory – of Dobby. Yet he felt some kind of dispassionate curiosity about what had become of the traitorous elf.

"He's working at Hogwarts," Hermione explained at his query, "Dumbledore hired him sometime in my fourth year."

"Naturally," he drawled, "it is to be expected that those two would make good _friends_. With Potter, it adds up to the perfect little trio …"

Hermione looked slightly puzzled, but did not comment. Instead, she asked, "What day is it?"

"Saturday."

She let out a breath of relief. "Thank Merlin! There, I thought I missed a day of work … Fudge would rip my head off for an absence, as would Weasley – Percy Weasley, the new Head of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement," she clarified at his look of bewilderment, "Only temporary, the Minister assures us. The point is – failure to show up at work is not tolerated for the Aurors, especially these days."

"Such _dreadfully_ dark times, aren't they?" Lucius drawled, smirking maliciously. Hermione laughed. If someone was responsible for the Aurors' overwork … it was she, the Dark Lord's secret agent, and he, the chief Death Eater.

**-**

"The ground floor consists mainly of the drawing room, the dining room, and other reception halls. Draco and Pansy inhabit the West Wing of the manor. Narcissa's apartments are in the East Wing, as are my private quarters. Guest rooms, including the one where you woke up, are up on the second floor."

Lucius had insisted on giving her a tour of the manor. There were fifty-something rooms, not to count the towers – and all of them were furnished with the same refined extravagance that testified of the wealth and aristocratic status of his ancestors. Right know, they were standing in a passageway that was, Hermione assumed, somewhere between the reception rooms.

Suddenly, she found herself pulled inside a dark alcove. In the complete darkness, he pushed her against a wall and kissed her.

"At Hogwarts, they use broom cupboards for this sort of activity … in my home, though, the cupboards are filled with much more _unpleasant_ items. However, this will do …"

He pushed her down to the floor.

"Really, Lucius," she said mildly, "this isn't very comfortable, you know … could you not find a better spot?"

"We are Death Eaters, Hermione, and Death Eaters hardly seek comfort in their surroundings … it is rather the thrill of action that entices us."

_We are Death Eaters_ … if Hermione had heard that phrase a few months ago … She marvelled at how much had happened, and how much she had changed, in the last three months. For it had been just _three months_ … three months ago she had been an entirely proper Auror … and she was now a Dark witch on par with Bellatrix Lestrange.

"You are not like the rest of them, Lucius," she said. "For one, you never flinch when the Dark Lord's name is uttered out loud – you are the only one not to do so. Two, they all listen to you, which they don't do for any other Death Eater."

"You are correct about that, my dear," he drawled. "And as I am sure you would rather pay a visit to my room …" Without waiting for an answer, he took her hand and Apparated them away with a _crack_.

They arrived at a magnificent door of ebony wood engraved with silver carvings. The moment his hand touched the doorknob – which was of silver and shaped like a serpent's head – the door swung open.

It was a spacious room with a shiny, polished wooden floor and ebony furniture gleaming in the corners. The bed, in harmony with the extensive proportions of the room, was huge and magnificently carved; the headboard was decorated – unsurprisingly – with a serpent design. The curtains around the bed, of green silk, swayed in the slight draft created by the open window.

She barely had the time to glance around before she was pushed back on the softest bed she ever had the chance to touch. It felt like lying on a cloud.

"Swan feathers," remarked Lucius.

He flipped her over, and before she had the time to blink, she found herself on her back with him holding her wrists pinned to the pillow above her head. _Why must he always do that?_ she wondered. Not that she minded. No, it was just … odd.

And it made her feel helpless. A reminder that even if she did not want this, if she changed her mind, there was nothing she could do … He would not stop if she protested, and if she struggled, he would use physical force to subdue her. To show her that she had no control in this whatsoever, while he had it all … he was in control. He always was. But this … he was taking the choice away from her, by making sure she couldn't even struggle … even though she complied of her own free will, it didn't matter, because she knew the truth. The knowledge that she had no say in this … none at all …

"You've got a controlling-people thing," she muttered.

"But you enjoy it, my dear," he drawled, crushing her wrists more tightly in his hand as he caressed her cheek with the other. She shivered and her eyes fluttered closed. He pulled his hand away, and she opened her eyes instantly to glare at him. He gave her a haughty smile. "You have a _thing_ for wizards who aim to control you, don't you? One only has to think of what sort you associated with at school …"

Hermione reddened but did not argue.

**-**

They were having dinner in the drawing room, because Lucius had deemed it unwise to invite Hermione to the dining room, which was currently occupied by Narcissa, Draco and Pansy.

He glanced over at the brown-haired witch, who was looking through a window with a distant expression in her eyes.

"Whatever are you reflecting about?" he drawled.

She sighed, still gazing thoughtfully at the window. "There is something about you," she started slowly, "something I can't quite figure out, even though it has always been there. From the first time I saw you … you are one of the Death Eaters, and yet you are also something _else_ … you are different from all of them. I have noticed it a long time ago … I can sense it. There's an air around you … I can't quite describe it, and it is not like anything I have encountered in anyone else – not even the Dark Lord – no one except the portrait of that namesake of yours, Altair Malfoy …"

Lucius gave her a sharp glance. This young witch was far too observant – and clever – for her own good. Then again, that had always been her reputation, and he had known it … it was part of what made her so alluring in his eyes.

Then he recalled a conversation he had _accidentally _overheard between his parents …

_Look at him … he is the carbon copy of Altair, from the pictures we have of him in his youth … perhaps he will be the worthy heir. The hero, the Light of our family …_

_Do not be foolish, Cecilia. My father failed dismally, as did I. What makes you think our son will be any more successful?_

He had known, of course, what they were referring to. And he had vowed, silently, that he would make his parents proud. That was back when he had been young and naïve … life had certainly taught him it wasn't so easy. His father and grandfather had failed not because they hadn't tried hard enough, but because their goal was unattainable these days … And so, he, too, had failed.

He remembered Hermione's remark from earlier that day, and suddenly, he wanted to _tell_ her. He wanted her to know …

"I am not like the rest of them," he said softly, "but you do not know to what extent."

"Then tell me," said Hermione. "Why does the entire Dark side treat you as though you are royalty? Why is your name regarded with such awe, such respect? Why do the Death Eaters obey you unquestioningly, like they do the Dark Lord?" Her voice was low and breathless. "Tell me. I want to know."

Lucius wondered why he felt inclined to confide to this woman. Why was it that he wanted to tell her his family's best-kept secret? But then again … why not? It was information the majority of the Death Eaters already knew – why keep it from her?

He moved a tapestry on the wall, revealing a passage. He beckoned to Hermione to follow him, and she did so wordlessly.

The walls were covered in the same shiny wooden panelling as the rest of the manor. A massive desk was stationed in the centre, with a high-backed chair on one side of it and a couch upholstered in velvet on the other. There was a bookcase behind the desk, full of books on history of magic, politics, wars, magical theory … there was also a large number of books lacking a title – most likely Dark Arts tomes. These books looked more ancient than anything she had seen in the Hogwarts library, and her fingers itched to touch them, to leaf through the antique pages and read until she had their content committed to memory …

_Not now_, she told herself, tearing her gaze away from the books.

Lucius told her to sit down. He sat on the other end of the couch.

"It is a matter of heritage," he started, glancing impassively around the room. "A legacy little known to the world …"

"And what does this legacy consist of?" Hermione asked at once.

"The Malfoys have always been actively involved in politics," he said smoothly, "but one surpassed all his ancestors – and descendants. His name was Altair Malfoy."

Hermione finally asked the question she had been pondering for a long time. "Who exactly _was _Altair Malfoy?"

"He was a Dark Lord – the predecessor of Grindelwald. It is not for nothing that we are considered the Darkest wizarding family of Britain – our bloodline is no less Dark than Salazar Slytherin's … but my great-great-great-grandfather differed from all the others who have held the same title. He was one of the few Dark Lords in history to succeed in gaining absolute power over a realm, one of the few to establish a reign that would stand for decades … one of the few to become head of state."

Hermione felt her jaw open soundlessly.

"You have heard, of course, that Salazar Slytherin was a brilliant politician as well as a great teacher and magically powerful wizard … he published numerous books describing his view of an ideal wizard society, and my family have been adherents of his theory for as long as it has existed."

She nodded. She knew what he was talking about – Salazar Slytherin's theory of pure-blood superiority. As much as she loathed it, as much as she thought it was irrational and offensive, she had to concede that Slytherin must have been intelligent and powerful enough that his ideas were still present a thousand years later.

"But what you do not know," drawled Lucius, "is that a political system based on Slytherin's beliefs has once been established in Britain – a hierarchy determined by the purity of blood. It was not what could be called a democratic government," he said earnestly, "but a monarchy ruled by the oldest family in the realm.

"Altair Malfoy, my great-great-great-grandfather, patriarch of the purest family of wizards in Great Britain and beyond, was accepted as the legitimate candidate to the position of leadership. The Blacks, whose blood is less ancient than ours by a few centuries, were also a possible choice. But blood is one asset that cannot be contested. The Blacks were second to us, which, to them, was a honour their remaining descendants still pride themselves in. Everyone else's rank in the kingdom was also determined by the purity of their blood, the oldest and purest being granted a seat in the king's High Council – a variation of the current Wizengamot – the indisputable power ladder determined automatically by their family tree."

He looked at her, searching for a reaction – but Hermione was in her school mode. She was listening and memorising with detachment, not letting her personal opinion cloud her mind. Satisfied, he resumed speaking.

"Thus, my ancestor established a monarchy, a kingdom to replace the Ministry of Magic already in place, instating himself as the absolute ruler of wizarding Britain … he fulfilled the ambition of all his ancestors. The monarchy stood for forty years, and was to be transferred to Altair's heir upon his death."

He paused. Hermione's eyes – which had gone unusually wide – stayed fixed on him even in the silence, and he knew he had her compete attention, even though it was obvious that she was assimilating the information and trying to make a conclusion.

"However, in the late 1880s, a young wizard, clever and magically powerful, had been rising steadily in rank and winning the support of the general population. This wizard possessed powers rarely seen – a magical prodigy, really, skilled in all aspects of magic including the Dark Arts, though he strongly considered himself the epitome of morality, the champion of everything good and righteous … in other words, he was the opposite of my ancestor, who practiced the Dark Arts openly and encouraged his followers to do so as well."

He paused again, and Hermione saw his white hands clench in rage.

"This wizard held to the belief that Muggles '_weren't so bad_' – that they ought to be _equal _to wizarding folk. He was not happy with the system in place. He wanted change … and he swayed others to his side. He led them in a rebellion against their royal government in 1894, in which his cohorts sieged the High Council's headquarters in London while he personally _took care_ of the royal family. Altair Malfoy, his wife and their son were killed in the attack, as were most of the Council. Those who managed to evade the massacre went into hiding, and most of the current Death Eaters are their descendants. The only reason the family name did not die out is because the_ man_, moralistic fool that he is, refused to kill the youngest Malfoy – Eridanus – as he was but a child. He let the heir survive, judging him no danger once he had been deprived of his position …"

Hermione remembered the portrait of Eridanus Malfoy, the eyes of a man whose only goal in life had been vengeance …

"The monarchy was abolished as, say, by the will of the British nation – that wizard has always acted in the name of the public, you'll notice – and in its place was reinstated the Ministerial system which still stands today."

Hermione blinked. This story filled the gaps in the version published in history manuals. There was only one question left to ask …

"Lucius … who was that wizard?"

The answer came in a stiff, emotionless tone. "A fifty-four-year-old Albus Dumbledore."

Hermione gasped. "_Dumbledore?_" She looked horrified. "Dumbledore, murder an entire family?" she whispered.

Lucius smiled grimly. "The meddlesome fool is quite skilled at maintaining the image of a golden champion? He has duped many of us, yourself included, but if one were to wonder … surely he did not use a _healing_ spell to _defeat_ Grindelwald."

"I never thought of that," Hermione admitted.

"And apparently, neither have others."

She thought for a moment. "But … he didn't kill the child – Eridanus. He spared him."

His nostrils flared. "You think that was mercy?" he "He had no right to dispossess a child of his parents and his birthright. He had no justification for attacking legitimately established authority and bringing it down to further spread his polluting ideology in our world. He had no excuse for robbing the House of Malfoy of its rightful place in this world!"

"I'm not saying he was right," Hermione said quickly. They were talking about his _family_; she should have known that it was a sensitive subject for him. "What Dumbledore did was wrong … it was murder. I never thought he was capable of something so cruel …"

There was a moment of silence as Hermione stared at the snowy grounds outside the window. She was trying to come to terms with the fact that the righteous Headmaster of Hogwarts had _killed_. What dark thoughts were going through Lucius's mind at the moment, she could never fathom. Finally, he spoke again.

"Well, now you know – the blood hierarchy. Today, respectable families still hold to those beliefs … it is what we call _wizard pride_. It is the reason why the Weasleys are undeserving of the name of wizard … why don't they just go off and dwell among the Muggles they like so much? They would be doing us all a great favour by removing their filthy presence from our world …"

Hermione had the impression that there was more to the story where the Weasleys were concerned. But she had a more pressing question on her mind, one she didn't want to ask – she was sure she wouldn't like his answer – but couldn't hold back. "But what does that make _me_? Less than nothing, lower than the most worthless blood traitor …"

Lucius refrained from answering, but they both knew his silence was out of consideration for Hermione, as that was exactly what she was, according to Slytherin's scheme. In any case, he was glad she did not defend the Weasleys, especially as she did not know the full story.

"But how come this isn't in the history books?" said Hermione. "How come this past isn't known in the wizarding world?"

"Do you really think it is something we are proud of? That we have been royalty, only to have our position stolen from us by a bunch of Muggle-loving filth?"

The look on his face was reminiscent of the one he wore whenever he looked at a Weasley. Contempt, disgust … and a veiled hatred lurking just beneath the surface …

"We prefer to keep our past quiet, quite frankly out of embarrassment," he admitted. "The surviving member of the family convinced historians to hush their quills on those events, and as we all know, the most that was ever written about that period is – ah – '_a Dark wizard ruled over Britain for forty years before being vanquished by Albus Dumbledore_'."

Hermione frowned. "Oh, I remember … that's what they say in _The Rise and Fall of the Dark Arts_. But when you say he _convinced_ them not to write about it, do you actually mean he _bribed_ them?"

"Yes, you understand that correctly," Lucius said smoothly. "Now, as I was saying … the old families _do_ know, as they have been told the true version of events by their forefathers, the knowledge being passed on from generation to generation … that is the reason the name Malfoy is respected and revered in the honourable pure-blood society – you have seen, of course, that they all defer to me … they dare not contest my rank."

"But why didn't your family return to France?" asked Hermione. "I doubt Dumbledore's influence extended that far."

"Out of pride, Hermione … we would not let ourselves be chased from our land by a bunch of disgraceful blood traitors. Eridanus Malfoy stayed, lay low for the moment, established a family to carry on the line … and so we have lived for a century, instilling the knowledge of our past into our children, hoping that one day, one of our descendants would do us justice by restoring glory and power to the name Malfoy."

He sneered bitterly. "But that was not to be … a century has passed, and the burden now rests upon me, as the current head of the family … I will have to disappoint my ancestors, as did both my father and my grandfather – as will my son, for I have no illusions about Draco's awfully insufficient intellect … he truly is his mother's son. Not to mention that she spoiled the brat – sending him sweets every morning while he was at Hogwarts, until he grew accustomed to everyone bending to his every whim … no wonder he grew up to be an undisciplined layabout, with all her indulgence. No, it is definitely not Draco who will be a tribute to the family."

Hermione sniggered. "Yes, I quite agree. Draco as the leader of wizarding Britain … the very idea is laughable." She paused thoughtfully, and her expression became serious. "You, however … you are very organised … you have all the qualities of a great leader."

"You know Dumbledore would never let a Malfoy gain the least bit of power, Hermione, and it doesn't seem as though he is planning to die anytime soon. I believe he fears his actions will come back to haunt him one day … and he is very cautious to never let that day come. And as I doubt the Dark Lord would approve either …"

"But you _are_ the heir." It was more of a statement than a question.

Something flickered in his eyes. "I am indeed," he said. "However, it is rather problematic to make a claim to the leadership of a country when one is an outlaw hunted by the government and all its Aurors …"

At that moment, Hermione wanted to _do_ something. _She_ was not an outlaw; she was a respected Auror, a trusted member of the government … like so many times before, a thirst for action had ignited in her.

At that moment, her eyes lit up with a glint that would have frightened Harry and Ron. It was the glint they had seen when she had come up with SPEW, the same as when the idea of the DA had clicked in her head … a glint that held a steely resolution. It was a glint that meant that Hermione Granger had found a cause and would stop at nothing, in spite of all the obstacles that stood in her way. Only this time the glint also held a threatening promise that those who stood in her way would not remain standing – or even breathing – by the time she was through with it.

There was only one problem …

"But… what about the Dark Lord?" she asked. "Where does he fit in all of this?"

"Lord Voldemort?" Lucius pronounced the name, much to Hermione's shock, and he explained promptly, "I speak the name … I am his follower, his subordinate, and I cannot contest his power … but I _can_ contest his blood, as it is less pure than my own.

"The Dark Lord is an exception. He seeks to rule us all on the basis that he is Salazar's own heir, and, obviously, it – compensates – for his tainted blood, therefore giving him rank above the blood hierarchy … _obviously_," Lucius repeated more to himself than to Hermione, his cold eyes flashing with an indeterminate emotion.

It looked like Lucius had some resentment towards their Master. He clearly refrained from saying that Voldemort stole his rightful place, leaving him second to a Dark Lord who was not even a pure-blood.

"Then why do you follow him?"

"You have heard, of course, of how he dealt with the pure-blood families who refused to follow him," Lucius said, staring at her. Hermione understood. The McKinnons, the Bones, the Prewetts, the Potters … even though he claimed his goal was to get rid of the Muggles and bring the pure-bloods to power, Voldemort did not hesitate to eradicate the families who opposed him.

"Besides … I have a high rank in the Dark Order, second only to the Dark Lord … the other Death Eaters follow me as they do him … I have power I would not have been able to gain alone …

"And perhaps … eventually …" His eyes became distant for a moment, and Hermione suspected that she knew exactly what he was thinking. Then he shook his head sharply. "Clearly, I disagree with some of his ideas. He has changed Salazar's creed to fit his personal goals … but it remains the closest option we have to Salazar's – and my ancestor's – original beliefs."

Hermione blinked at the abrupt change of subject.

"Also, he is one of the few to oppose Dumbledore openly, and you know the saying, _the enemy of your enemy_ –"

"– _is your friend_," she finished.

"Quite right … you understand me well, Hermione."

Not for the first time, she looked at him with a perplexed expression. "You are such an adamant supporter of Slytherin's philosophy … and yet … I'm a Muggle-born. How come you … _noticed_ me in the first place?" she asked.

He looked at her pensively. "You have heard, of course, that the Dark Lord is not a pure-blood … I was one of the few to have known it from the start. Tom Marvolo Riddle … Lord Voldemort … a half-blood. When he started recruiting followers in the 1970s, my family was one of the first he went to seeking our support – he needed financial assistance for the most part, as being the Heir of Slytherin provided him with neither gold nor land. I joined him knowing he is a half-blood … because I have seen his power. I have seen him perform magic of a magnitude the rest of us can only dream about. I have seen him rise from beyond death …

"His father may have been a mere Muggle, but he is the most powerful wizard alive. And so, he has proven himself as the exception we cannot contest. We have learnt the lesson – the fact that blood can be disregarded in rare instances."

His eyes shifted back to her. "You are yet another exception to the laws of purity, Hermione, as even the _Dark Lord_ –" for once, he spat the words with an equal amount of mockery and bitterness, "– has admitted. I know your story: top of every class at Hogwarts, prefect, Head Girl, ten OWLs, top marks in NEWTs … you, a Muggle-born, did better than countless pure-blooded children, including my own son. It would be hypocritical to deny this fact, and unlike the Light side, we are not hypocrites."

He smirked at her. "And if that is not reason enough … if that is doubt or scepticism I see in your eyes …" He seized her arm in a hard grip and turned her around.

"I remember the small girl who defied me with her fiery glare, in the Top Box … the Muggle-born who looked up to me quite despite herself – only I saw what you did not wish me to see. The Dark side does not seek to eliminate the Mudbloods from our society, merely to put them in their place so that we – the true wizardkind – can obtain the supremacy that is our birthright. You, Hermione, need not be taught your place – you were there all along."

Hermione looked down from the mockery in his eyes.

He relinquished his grip on her. "Oh, you were there all along indeed. In your eyes, I see all the esteem I require of my inferiors. Most importantly, it was there before you knew the truth of who I really am … and that, my dear, is what distinguishes you from others of your sort."

Was that a compliment? After he had so kindly informed her that she was not part of the 'true wizardkind' …

"But – but –" She raised her chin bravely. "How can you imply I'm not part of the 'true wizardkind', when I did better at Hogwarts than a whole class of pure-blooded children? There's no logic in that!"

His face was immobile, and he looked almost bored. He watched her with lazy eyes, as though she had disappointed him somehow, like she was an immature child …

She fell silent, looking into his eyes. He looked back at her with a calm assurance and an underlying authority, a challenge almost, as though it amused him to watch her _try_ to argue with him. He probably wanted to see how long she could keep this rebellion up …

/Was that a compliment? After he had so kindly informed her that she was not part of the 'true wizardkind' … /but for some reason, Hermione did not feel offended. Why be offended by the truth? To the contrary, now that she knew the whole truth … she truly felt flattered. That she, a plain Muggle-born, was given the honour to be a guest in this dwelling that had housed royalty and to be the confidante of their heir …

Hermione's eyes expressed a renewed admiration, a fervent devotion and a humble respect as she looked up at Lucius. She put her hand on his arm and said in a low voice:

"My Lord, you have my complete devotion … and I swear that the one we both serve will never hear a word of this. Also I shall assist you in any way I can …"

He placed a white hand on the crown of her head, caressing her thick brown hair. But his grey eyes, fixed on hers, remained cold and inscrutable even as he spoke in a lazy murmur: "I appreciate your sincerity, Hermione, though I have no doubt the Dark Lord is aware of the – ah – _reluctance_ of my loyalty towards him. The Dark Lord always knows." He paused in thought. "Tell me, Hermione … why did you join the Death Eaters?"

Why did she join them indeed? For power, to get out of her erstwhile friends' shadow, but the main reason was … "To make you proud."

He smiled slightly. "That's the Auror who joined the Dark Order for me. If fate was on my side … if it were up to me, your loyalty would have been generously rewarded … very generously rewarded."

Lost in the what-could-bes, forgetting about reality for a moment, he sounded so firm, so authoritative, so _powerful_ …

For a moment, Hermione saw a glimpse of the heir to the royal realm of wizarding Britain hiding behind the façade of the second-in-command to Lord Voldemort. She had always known there was something about Lucius – an aura of power, of majesty … something royal.

He stoked her hair, gazing at her through half-closed eyes. He could see awe in her expressive brown eyes, and he enjoyed it. It felt good, to know someone owed their allegiance to him and not to the Dark Lord, for a change. Of course, she probably did not fully realise it …

He decided then that he would not be separated from this woman, not by anyone. Whatever the future held in store for them, he would let nothing bring them apart. Nothing and no one would take her away from him.

Not even death.

His hand became heavier on her head, pressing her down with more insistence. Hermione bowed her head under the oppressive touch, unaware of the glimmer of malevolence flickering in his eyes as his smile turned into a smirk.

"My dear … my loyal Hermione," he said softly. "Promise me … promise me that if I were to die …"

She turned her head to look at him sharply. She would rather not think of that possibility … no, she could not bear to think of it … but whatever he wanted of her, she would promise, she would swear – and she would do. Anything. "Yes?" she said quietly.

Their eyes met, and she could read a fierce possessiveness in his eyes. "… if I were to die, you would kill yourself."

Taken aback, Hermione stiffened in his arms. This was more like the kind of request she could imagine Voldemort demanding of Bellatrix … not that the Dark Lord would ever envision the event of his own death. And he had no reason to. The killing curse did not affect him; he was immortal. Well, it wasn't like anyone had tried to cast the third Unforgivable on Lord Voldemort, but who would? Really, who would risk their life like that, knowing it had no chance of working? Only Harry Potter had a chance, apparently …

To ask her to join him in death, so that she would not outlive him … it was cruel, but fully expected of a Dark wizard like Lucius. And he had full right to demand that of her. It was only thanks to him that she was still alive; she owed him her life … and she would repay the debt. Also, if an accident were to befall him … death would be a relief to her, as she would have no reason to live anymore.

"I promise, Lucius … in the unlikely event of your demise, I'll follow you into the netherworld – but not before avenging you."

"Fair enough, I suppose, my Hermione … my loyal Hermione …"

"My Lord," she responded. But this time, she was acknowledging more than his territorial rank as the earl of wizarding Wiltshire.

When she had asked him to tell her … to explain everything … she had sincerely wanted to _know_. But she had not known what she was asking for. She had not known she would learn an entire new side of history … knowledge that would forever change the way she looked at the leading figures of the Light side. Knowledge that would change much more than just her mindset … because Hermione was a person who acted on her beliefs. She had always fought for what she considered right, and just, and honourable … and so she would. Even if it was only the_ right side of wrong_.

Long minutes of silence, solemn in its intensity, stretched over the couple facing each other between oak-panelled walls as the sun set in the sky above them. Walls that had heard centuries of secrets and witnessed hundreds of confessions. In the same room where, nearly eighteen decades ago, a young blond wizard had related his dreams of grandeur to his dark-haired mistress, who listened with a look of awe and swore she would do everything in her power to help him reach his aspirations. A conversation that had resulted in events of an importance neither of them could have foreseen … as would this one.

Antarès Lestrange had not been wrong to consider this young Muggle-born witch as her modern counterpart.


	15. Face Your Fears

— CHAPTER FIFTEEN —

_**Face Your Fears**_

Hermione spent the weekend at the manor. Most of her time was spent reading the books Lucius had gladly lent her. He had expressed no surprise at her sudden interest in wizarding politics and pure-blood etiquette, and for that she was glad. She wasn't sure if she wanted to explain her reasons. She didn't think she could.

He also gave her some books on Dark magic, and she read those with as much interest. However, even though she was good at it, magic had never been her forte. Not really. True, she had realised this only recently, but she had always been the mastermind – that was her specialty. Intelligence. Logic. Scheming. And cunning – wasn't she the one to come up with sneaky plans at Hogwarts?

She had learnt the layout of the mansion, and soon enough, she walked in the corridors feeling as though she were at home. But she was careful not to leave the East Wing; it was the only area that was closed off from the younger generation of the Malfoys. Draco and Pansy had free reign over the rest of the manor, and she wasn't looking forward to meeting one of them in a hallway. As far as she knew, they weren't even aware of her presence in the house.

Narcissa knew she was there, but Lucius had somehow 'convinced' her to stay quiet about it. To this day, Hermione did not know what he had done to her, but whatever it was, it had worked. The woman stayed up in her room and was rarely seen outside it. Hermione wondered if the older woman was plotting a way to kill her again; it wouldn't surprise her. Which made it even more imperative that she take action, and _soon_, if she wanted to prevent another attempt on her life.

The weekend ended too quickly for Hermione's tastes, though she had to admit she _was_ slightly impatient to get back to the Ministry. No, she was not excited about work. Not exactly. But she had plans – plans that could only be set in motion outside of this isolated house.

Firstly, she would be paying a visit to the Wizengamot Archives, and secondly, she needed to make a trip to Knockturn Alley as inconspicuously as possible (which meant she would probably have to wear her Death Eater attire – it was the best way to avoid attracting adverse attention in that place). A trip to a particular shop known for selling poisons for every occasion. A shop named Borgin and Burkes.

Not to mention a full day of work, probably with a good half-dozen raids on some places suspected of harbouring Dark wizards or artefacts, and a few hours overtime – it was not uncommon for Aurors to get back home from the Ministry after nine o'clock in the evening. Oh, and there was also an Order meeting at the end of the day. What _was_ Dumbledore thinking, calling a meeting every Monday evening? Well, the old wizard was quite known for being eccentric and for having a – what was it Lucius called it? Ah, yes, a "highly individual way of running things".

Her schedule was quite loaded. Even more so than usually. But, well, it was best to get over with it as quickly as possible. This was the reason Hermione was, right now, at five o'clock in the morning, sneaking out of the room she, er, _shared_ with the master of the house.

She needed to ask a favour of a certain house-elf. She had never anticipated that her affinity with house-elves would turn out to be so useful one day, but from all she had heard about Harry's dealings with Dobby, she knew a house-elf could be a very handy ally. Coddy seemed to like her, and she hoped to take advantage of that. She hoped she could convince the elf to help her with – and most importantly, stay silent about – something she was planning to do. Something no one should find out until it was done.

No one. Not even Lucius. She felt bad about having to hide this from him, but she had no choice, as she knew he would stop her if he had an inkling of what she was doing. For a Death Eater, the fact that he abided by the traditional code of family honour was rather surprising, and it made her admire him even more.

Hermione was standing at the door to the drawing room, where several house-elves were diligently doing the cleaning. "Coddy," she called clearly, "I need your help."

The elf instantly stopped what he was doing and scurried towards her and into the corridor.

"Coddy is being delighted to be of assistance. What can Coddy do for miss? Tell Coddy what it is and Coddy will do it."

Hermione beckoned the little creature closer and shut the door to the drawing room, effectively preventing the other elves from overhearing the conversation.

Hermione wondered if the elf would be so eager if he knew what it was that she needed help with. _Probably not. _Nevertheless, she would try. "We cannot speak about this here," she said in a low voice. "This is to be a complete secret, Coddy, do you understand? Pop in at my house one of these days … I know you can locate me with no trouble," she said, smirking at the elf's surprised look. "I am well aware of the boundaries of house-elf magic. Oh, and tell no one of my request, or my plan will be ruined before I even have the chance to set it in motion."

The house-elf nodded energetically. "Coddy understands, miss. Coddy will keep miss's secrets."

Hermione let out a breath of relief. For now, all was going well.

-

After a strenuous day at work and six raids on which all she managed to confiscate was a few scrolls of what looked like directions on how to cast a Dark spell, only written in _Spanish_ of all languages, Hermione stood in the shabby hallway of number twelve, Grimmauld Place, listening to the hushed chatter of the other members of the Order of the Phoenix. True, it was rather hard to hear anything once the portrait of Mrs Black started hollering its usual addition to the conversations.

"_Filth! Scum! Blood traitors, half-breeds, felons, Mudbloods, freaks! How dare you set foot in my house, how dare you befoul it with your presence –_"

Remus Lupin and Arthur Weasley – the latter's face expressing anger at the words _blood traitors_ – hurried over to the portrait and attempted to wrench the curtains closed. It did not look like they were having much success, though, because the portrait continued its tirade louder than ever. Oddly enough, the words now seemed to be directed entirely at Mr Weasley.

"_By-products of greed and dishonour, backstabbers, spawn of vileness and betrayal! You whose hair is as red as the blood on your hands! Have you no shame? Begone, begone from this place –_"

Mr Weasley, whose face had gone a deep shade of purple, was tugging at the curtains so hard they ripped apart. Lupin, though noticeably calmer, looked bewildered as he repaired the fabric with a wave of his wand.

Hermione started. Greed? Backstabbers? Betrayal? _What is that supposed to mean?_ she wondered. The Weasleys had always been one of the Light side's most committed families … then what was old Mrs Black hollering about? Blood traitors … but to be a traitor, you had to have once been on the _other_ side, before turning against it. Had the portrait gone completely mad, or …

Or what? What could this possibly mean? _… hair as red as the blood on your hands …_ what on earth could that mean? It wasn't like the Weasleys had ever been assassins or something – if they had, they would not be as poor as they were. Those jobs were well paid … Hermione got the impression that there was something she didn't know, and she did not like it.

The portrait gave a shriek louder than any before it – "_MURDERERS!_" – before the curtains swung shut, seemingly of their own accord.

Hermione turned around to see Dumbledore standing calmly in the hallway, his wand outstretched.

"Thank you, Albus," said Arthur Weasley, panting as though he had just run a mile. Hermione's eyes narrowed slightly.

"Murderers?" Ron Weasley said to the other Order members. "Now that's new. The old bat must've gone completely crazy – not that she was sane to begin with, mind you …" All of them, Hermione noticed, looked more or less confused. And then she realised that she must have been the only one not to have a befuddled expression on her face …

"Professor Dumbledore, were the Blacks supporters of Grindelwald?" she asked in an attempt to justify her unsurprised attitude. She was still referred to as the know-it-all, and the others would not be surprised if she showed a superior knowledge of magical history. It could even fool Dumbledore.

"The Black family followed nearly every Dark Lord in wizarding history, Miss Granger," said Dumbledore, whose face wore a rare expression of disgust. Without further comment, he walked purposefully through a door at the end of the hall, the assembled group of witches and wizards hurrying behind him as he led the way down a flight of narrow steps and through another door.

The group made way to the basement kitchen where the Order meetings always took place, whispering amongst themselves as always. But Hermione noted a change in the tone of their voices as compared to a month ago. They had progressively lost their excitement, their enthusiasm, and their ever-present optimism … the hushed whispers now sounded serious, worried, and weary. She guessed that the loss of three of their own had affected them deeply. The mood change had started after Snape's disappearance, and it grew worse at the news of Tonks and Neville's deaths.

Hermione remembered the Order's reaction to that news. She had been the one to relay the information to them, right after she had alerted the Ministry, and the collective response had been shock followed by sadness and anger. Ginny had cried the hardest, and Hermione suspected the girl had had some sort of infatuation with Neville for years, though she had no idea if the youngest Weasley had ever acted on her feelings, or even realised their existence.

She wasn't about to ask, in any case, she thought as she sat down next to Harry, ignoring the nasty looks Ron kept throwing her way from Harry's other side. She glanced over at Ginny, who had been looking glum and subdued for weeks now, and didn't seem to be getting over it. In fact, the redhead barely spoke these days – a huge change, as Ginny used to be loud-mouthed and downright whiny – and her face had become gaunt, as though she never ate.

But the most noticeable change had been in Ginny's eyes. Her bright brown eyes used to sparkle mischievously, and sometimes angrily, in a way reminiscent of Fred and George – she worked in their shop as vendor – but now her expression was sad and exhausted.

They had not been prepared for tragedy to strike so close, even though they had known they had voluntarily put their lives in danger the moment they joined the Order of the Phoenix. That day, the Order members had had a sharp reminder that all of them could die any moment.

"You all right there, Hermione?" Harry's voice cut into her thoughts. Hermione felt the urge to smirk at the irony of Harry actually worrying for her, when less than two days ago he had been pointing his wand at her and glaring in utmost hatred. Of course, he had not known it was she, his best friend, wearing a black mask, torturing Muggles and defending a group of Death Eaters …

"I am fine, Harry," said Hermione, sounding only slightly amused as she realised, suddenly, how many times she had said those words, and how utterly _true_ they were each time. Oh, the _joys_ of being a spy … "There is no need to worry about me. Tell me, how is Ginny?" she asked in a low voice, her eyes straying back to the red-haired girl. "She doesn't seem to be getting over Neville's death, does she?"

Anger flashed in Harry's eyes. He was always angry these days, and his hatred for the Dark Lord seemed to increase with each death reported in the _Daily Prophet_. "She's depressed, I reckon. Fred told me she works as diligently as ever – still the skilled saleswitch, he says – but she never laughs anymore."

"The poor girl," said Hermione, knowing Harry would mistake her tone for compassion. He always did. Hermione wanted to smirk, again, at the double meaning in the words. _Poor _indeed.

"Yeah, she took it really hard when Neville …" Harry's voice cracked. "Those bastards. They'll pay for this. All those innocent lives, all the children … but they didn't die in vain, I swear, when I see Voldemort next time …" Harry sounded fierce. "He's bound to come out one day. I mean, he can't hide in some old house forever because he doesn't know what the prophecy says, and he's too scared to face me! Nah, he'll come out, and when he does … he'll pay, and that scum Bellatrix Lestrange, and the rest of them –" He broke off and made a visible effort to calm down, then started again.

"I'm sorry, Hermione, but I won't stand by and watch while he murders everyone I care about. Who knows who it will be next time? Maybe Ron, or you, or Ginny … I'm the only one who can defeat him, and I damn well can't wait!"

"I know, Harry, I know," said Hermione soothingly. "I cannot wait for this to end either. Those evil murderers … killing our people off one by one … when will there ever be justice in the world?" she asked finally, looking up at the ceiling. She was laughing inside, except at the last sentence, which she meant – but not in the way Harry understood it. Justice … not _that_ kind of justice, mind you … the Light side was guilty of the same crimes they accused the Dark Order of committing, so what right did they have to decide who was 'good' and who was 'evil'?

Harry opened his mouth to say something, but what he was about to say, Hermione never found out. There was a banging sound from the head of the table; everyone stopped their conversations and looked up just as Dumbledore sheathed his wand and stood, signalling the start of the meeting.

"Welcome to this meeting of the Order of the Phoenix," said Dumbledore. "I am glad to see you all here, in these times of great sorrow." He paused, his blue eyes travelling around the table.

"This is a crucial time for us to unite and remember what we fight for. Times will come when all might seem lost, but we must have faith even as hope seems to be getting thinner with every time the sun rises. We must have faith, because if we give up, we _will_ lose. As long as we believe in what we fight for, we will prevail over the forces of Darkness. As long as there are still those who are willing to risk their lives for Good, and justice, and freedom, Lord Voldemort cannot triumph. Those who have died for us left this world with the knowledge that their sacrifices brought the Light side closer to winning. It is the most honourable death of all; remember them as you go into battle."

The solemn silence was almost deafening. But Hermione failed to see how the deaths contributed to the Light side's chances of winning … the old wizard's logic was seriously flawed.

"Fight for those who have died so that wizardkind can have a chance to find reprieve from Voldemort. Fight for the Muggles who live happily in their ignorance, and whose joy and innocence Voldemort seeks to take away. But most of all, remember that as soon as we give up, we have let Voldemort win. It is what he is waiting for –"

Dumbledore fell silent, gazing at the only door in the room. Some people craned their necks to look in the same direction, but saw nothing unusual.

Then the door was pushed open nosily and a figure dressed in ragged clothes staggered in drunkenly, dragging what looked like a large metal box after them. It was, obviously, Mundungus Fletcher.

"Sorry," he grunted. "Blimey, I lost track orf time … but s'just 'ad a good business opportunity," He gestured with a grubby hand towards the silver trunk. "S'true goblin-wrought silver, the 'ole thing. 'Aven't opened it yet –" Dung broke off, looking warily at Mrs Weasley, whose face was becoming redder by the second.

"WHAT DID I SAY ABOUT BRINGING STOLEN GOODS INTO THIS HOUSE?" shouted Molly Weasley. "FIRST THOSE CAULDRONS, AND NOW THIS!"

"Molly, calm down," said Dumbledore firmly. "Mundungus, take a seat. We were just about to start with the reports –"

Dumbledore paused again, because the silver box behind Mundungus made an odd rattling sound as it rose an inch from the floor, fell back with a _clang_, then rose again as though the thing inside it was trying to get free. Many people pulled out their wands and watched the box apprehensively, ready to use a spell in case it opened and released some dangerous creature.

And that was exactly what happened. The lid shot up and hit the floor with a resounding _bang_. However, nothing emerged from it. Nothing _visible_.

Then there was a cracking sound and something appeared out of thin air in front of Mrs Weasley, who let out a scream. The thing looked like Ron's dead body. But this was stupid – Ron was sitting at the table on Harry's other side. Actually, Ron was staring at the corpse at his mother's feet with a look of total confusion.

"BOGGART!" shouted Harry. The next thing they knew, a Dementor was gliding in his direction. Hermione pulled out her wand, just in case.

The people sitting nearby sprang out of their chairs and backed away. Ron wasn't fortunate enough, though; as he made it to run past the Boggart, it turned, and with a loud _crack_, became an enormous spider. Ron let out a girlish shriek. The Boggart seemed to sense his fear, because its pincers clicked menacingly and it crawled closer to Ron, eliciting another scream from the redhead. It looked like Ron had forgotten he was a wizard, because he didn't even try to use the wand in his hand.

Hermione wanted to laugh, but she knew how lucky she was to have avoided the Boggart herself, and had no desire of attracting its attention like Harry had just done.

People leapt out of their seats, their wands raised; those who hadn't pulled their wands out yet were doing so now. Lupin hurried towards Ron and the spider, but before he could reach them, there were screams as other Order members saw the corpses of people they loved suddenly appear in front of them.

"THERE'S MORE THAN ONE!" someone yelled over the screams and shouts of "_Riddikulus!_"

Then a terrible, deafening shout drowned out all the clamour. "_Quiet!_"

People froze in their places, their wands raised in mid-air as they turned around to Dumbledore, who had his wand drawn and was in the process of banishing the Boggart in front of a sobbing Mrs Weasley. "There is no reason to panic," he said once silence had descended. "We will methodically banish these Boggarts. Each of you knows the charm. _Riddikulus!_" He banished the nearest one, but it was impossible to count how many were left. Over a dozen, that's for sure.

Hermione saw Lupin was now struggling with a diminutive representation of the moon that seemed to evade him every time he aimed his wand at it; it was now spinning in the air above him, circling the werewolf's head –

A witch with a bun of black hair jumped between Lupin and the elusive Boggart; the silvery sphere disappeared and with a _crack_, became a hissing, twenty-foot-long snake. Women screamed; the black-haired witch turned her head and Hermione realised who it was – Minerva McGonagall. Who would have guessed the Head of Gryffindor House was afraid of giant cobras?

Professor McGonagall pointed her wand at the serpent, opened her mouth … but the Boggart moved before her spell could hit it. The snake slithered past several members of the Order, turning into different forms at such a speed that Hermione had trouble catching what they were. But she did notice that the most frequent shape assumed by the Boggart was a corpse that looked slightly different for each witch or wizard.

But when it reached Arthur Weasley, something peculiar happened. The Boggart turned into a copy of the _Daily Prophet_ that hovered in the air in front of his face.

The Weasley patriarch stared at it for a second and paled drastically. "No, no, no! _R – Riddikulus!_" But nothing happened.

Hermione wished she could see what was on the front page that scared Mr Weasley so much. She could tell Lucius; she knew he would find it amusing … But she knew better than to approach the Boggart.

Arthur Weasley's wand fell out of his hand and clattered to the floor. His horrified eyes were fixed on the paper as though he could not tear them away. "No – just a Boggart – no …" he whispered in a trembling voice. People around him were staring in bewilderment, wondering what this could be about.

Dumbledore walked forward, something akin to understanding in his eyes. "_Riddikulus!_" he said firmly.

As soon as the old wizard was within reach of the Boggart, the newspaper vanished and a dead Harry Potter appeared on the floor instead. Looking nonchalant, Dumbledore waved his wand again, and the Boggart disappeared in a puff of smoke. Mr Weasley muttered a shaky "Thank you" to the old wizard.

"Arthur, what was that?" asked a distressed-looking Molly Weasley.

"Yeah, Dad, why are you scared of a newspaper?" said Ron with his usual tact (or lack thereof).

Arthur Weasley gave them a smile of embarrassment. "Never you mind. Being silly … I'm sorry, Molly. There are worse things to be afraid of … and it's not like it would ever happen," he said, sinking into a chair. But Hermione heard him whisper to himself, out of the hearing range of his wife, "Just a Boggart …"

Glancing around the rectangular room from her place in the back of the crowd, well out of reach of the Boggarts, Hermione found it impossible to determine how many of these creatures had emerged from the crate brought by Mundungus, but it was obvious most of them had been banished. A few people were still struggling with one, but the majority were recovering from the ordeal. Professor McGonagall, who seemed to have succeeded in putting the giant snake out of her mind, was now standing in front of a cowering Mundungus. Her beady eyes were flashing and her mouth was set in a thin line.

"Did you even bother checking what was in that – that _thing_ before bringing it here?" she screeched, looking livid. "It could have been a bunch of poisonous snakes for all you knew!"

Hermione moved towards the door as quietly as she could. She was worried. There were still several Boggarts left, including the particularly evasive one that had attacked Lupin and McGonagall in turns, and if one of the Boggarts got close enough to her … she feared it would turn into something that would reveal too much to the onlookers – and she could not perform a Memory Charm on such a large group.

People with secrets should not face Boggarts in public.

Hermione's worst fear had always been failure. But there were different kinds of failure …

At Hogwarts, it had been failing her exams and being expelled. When she had had to face a Boggart during Auror training, it had been failing all her examinations. Later, on a raid in her first year as an Auror, a Boggart had turned into Fudge telling her that she was sacked.

But now? Losing her job was not her worst fear anymore. She had more important things to worry about.

If it wasn't professional failure … then what was it? Probably another kind of failure …

Maybe … failure as in failing to protect the ones you love? She thought of Mrs Weasley fighting the Boggart as it turned into the corpses of those she cared about … her worst fear … those she cared about …

_Oh!_

She paled. This could blow her cover!

Hermione edged away from the crowd and the Boggarts as noiselessly as possible. She opened the door and crept through it, rapidly slamming it shut behind her.

But not quickly enough, she realised as she heard a _crack_ behind her. One of the creatures, in its invisible form, must have followed her into the hallway.

_At least I won't have to face it in front of them_, she thought. She was sure she could overcome it, even though she had had some difficulty in her third year at Hogwarts. The Boggart form of Professor McGonagall telling her that she was expelled from the wizarding world had scared the brains out of her, but she had still managed to banish it in the end.

She could deal with it.

Hermione pulled out her wand and turned around determinedly. She had an idea of what – who – she would be facing, and she was not mistaken.

The Boggart had assumed the appearance of a familiar pale wizard with shiny blond hair, who glared down at her mockingly.

"You are nothing but a filthy Mudblood. Did you ever believe otherwise? Did you think _I_ believed otherwise? Then you are very much misguided."

That voice, saying such words… this was too much for her. She backed away, momentarily forgetting about the wand in her hand.

"No. You are not real," she whispered. She could feel tears forming in her eyes.

The Boggart, ignoring her words, chuckled coldly.

"Did you really think I cared about you?" He laughed derisively. "Stupid girl. You are nothing to me –"

_Not real … just a Boggart,_ she told herself, raising the wand in her shaking hand.

"– and you always were. You have indeed been a useful servant, but now that you have fulfilled your purposes … I never want to see you again, as you are but a nuisance to me. Did you really believe you could please me? Naïve girl. You are just an ugly little Mudblood –"

Hermione was suddenly aware of the tears streaming down her cheeks. "No! _R – r – Riddikulus!_"

_Crack._

Lucius morphed into a tall, thin, hooded figure with gleaming red eyes. Voldemort.

For some reason, Hermione found this form of the Boggart less frightening than the previous one. And she wondered why the spell wasn't working. Why did she have multiple fears? Most people feared one thing over all others, and rare were those who had several 'worst' fears that frightened them to an equal degree. The only other she knew was Mrs Weasley.

The Dark Lord – no, the Boggart posing as the Dark Lord – fixed his pitiless glare on Hermione.

"You are not loyal to me," he hissed, high, cold voice pulsing with anger. "But know this, Granger: no one challenges the noble line of Slytherin. I have no need for furtive servants who conspire against me behind my back … I don't tolerate mutiny within the Dark Order. The Dark side will not be divided. I killed _him_, and now, I kill you."

Voldemort slowly raised his wand …

"_Riddikulus!_" shouted Hermione.

_Crack._

The Dark Lord's black robes turned purple with golden stars on them, the red eyes turned a piercing blue, and he grew white hair and a long white beard. It was Albus Dumbledore, cold fury etched in his lined face, his wand out and aimed at Hermione.

"It will never happen," said Dumbledore quietly but firmly. "You, Miss Granger, will make sure it never does." The ancient wizard smiled grimly at her. "_Imperio!_"

Hermione froze in horror. She had read that Boggarts did not just _look_ like the thing you feared most – they _became_ it. Thus, when Harry faced a Boggart, the Boggart literally became a Dementor, with all the creature's powers and abilities. This was why the Boggart posing as a Dementor had the effect of making Harry hear his parents' dying screams. Hence, if a Boggart were to turn into Lord Voldemort – like this one had done mere seconds ago – and cast the Killing Curse, the curse would work as if Voldemort himself had done it.

Technically, a Boggart possessed all the powers of the person or thing it was impersonating.

And – Hermione realised this in the split-second before the spell took effect, as she stood petrified with shock – when the Boggart pretending to be Dumbledore cast the Imperius Curse on her, it would be as effective as a spell cast by the real Dumbledore. It would work … like a normal Imperius Curse cast by a powerful wizard.

And since Hermione, unlike Harry, had never had the innate ability to fight the Imperius, nor had she ever been trained to do it … if it was even possible to learn, which she wasn't sure it was – the capacity of resisting a mind controlling spell seemed to be a natural faculty, but it was not unheard that a person, if pushed far enough, could eventually learn to withstand the spell … she wondered, for a moment, if Dumbledore would really do such a thing. _Of course he would_, she told herself. _You know what he's capable of – what he _has done.

Her thoughts were interrupted as she felt a dreamy haze settle over her brain. She felt so peaceful … there was nothing to worry about … she was calm, she was happy, and she didn't _care_ …

_Kill him_, said Dumbledore's voice in her head.

Under the effect of the spell, Hermione turned and walked towards the door … she went to leave the room, pulling out her wand, preparing to Apparate, her mind empty of thought or emotion …

And then something awoke in the back of her head, something she had not felt during the previous times she had been subjected to the Imperius.

No, I will not, said a voice in her mind, a voice that sounded much like her own. I will never.

It was the first time Hermione had managed to fight the Imperius Curse. If pushed far enough … yes, she had finally learnt to defend against the spell.

_Kill him …_

I will not.

But – just like Harry – she could not fully fight off it on the first try. She had just learnt to resist the spell's compulsion to some degree, but she could not fend it off completely. After some practice, she would probably be able to throw it off entirely, but for now, for the first time, she could not. She couldn't resist the order itself, but she could interpret it differently.

_Kill him …_

Never.

She could not fight the 'kill' part, and if she did not have another target, she would have probably pointed her wand at herself. But luckily she _did_ have a convenient target right here …

Hermione aimed her wand at the creature that looked like Dumbledore.

"_Avada Kedavra!_" she shouted.

A green flash surged from her wand; Dumbledore's image dissipated into thin air, and the dreamy fog in Hermione's mind disappeared with it. She had wondered, once, what effect an Unforgivable Curse would have if cast on a Boggart. Now she knew. The Boggart simply disintegrated, leaving no trace that it had ever existed.

Breathing heavily, Hermione wiped beads of sweat from her forehead with the back of her hand. _At least I can resist the Imperius now … might prove useful in the future_, she thought. But if she were to look into a mirror, she would have realised she was pale as a ghost.

"Hello there, Granger," said a low, growling voice.

Hermione whirled around, her wand raised, to face the person standing in the open doorway. It was Mad-Eye Moody.

The disfigured, grizzly-haired ex-Auror was standing by the door – which, Hermione recalled clearly, had been firmly closed a mere moment earlier. His wooden leg clanked on the floor as he limped towards her, both of his eyes fixed on her with a frightening intensity. Hermione found herself facing the wizard who, in his days as an Auror, had managed to instil fear in all who considered themselves part of the Dark Order.

Alastor Moody, who could see through walls … he had probably watched her plight with the Boggart from the beginning …

Hermione paled even more, her grip on her wand tightening.

"H—how nice to see you, Mad-Eye. How long have you been … standing there?" _How long have you been watching me with that blasted eye of yours?_

"Long enough," growled Moody, whose magical eye spun in its orbit until it settled, finally, on Hermione's left sleeve. "Filth," he sneered, looking at her with an expression of great distaste. "Deserter. Spy. For one of the Aurors to turn on their own … I have rarely heard of a viler, more despicable act. It's for filth like you that the Dementors exist –"

"Fool," spat Hermione. "The Dementors would never harm one of the Dark Lord's followers. _Obliviate!_"

Mad-Eye's wand appeared in the blink of an eye, deflecting the spell back at Hermione, who ducked to avoid being hit by her own Memory Charm. The almost transparent gush of white light flew over her head and smashed into a wall.

"Oh no you don't! Don't think you can do away with me so easily, lass," Moody said quietly. "Many of your kind have met a most fortunate end at my hands … no less than they deserved, too. No less than _you_ deserve, you lying, traitorous piece of dirt. _Stupefy!_"

"_Protego!_" By the time Hermione finished saying the word, Moody had already sent a barrage of other spells at her. The old Auror was quick, she had to admit, and it would be difficult to overcome him in a duel. Unless she tricked him using his weaknesses … _Be a Slytherin, Hermione_, she thought as she jumped out of the way of the multi-coloured jets of light flying from Moody's wand. She had to distract him so that she could cast the one spell she knew Moody could not defend himself against – unless he dodged it. And she had to make sure he didn't see it coming, so that he would not have the chance.

Moody's weakness … it was also her own. Or it had been, until minutes ago … for a moment, she had thought it would be her undoing. However, the terrifying experience would not stop her from using that spell on her opponent. She had nothing against the Imperius Curse – as long as she was the one casting it.

"_Petrificus Totalus!_" yelled Hermione. The ex-Auror blocked it, just as she expected, and she sent a stream of spells at him without pausing to breathe. "_Stupefy! Impedimenta! Accio magical eyeball!_"

Mad-Eye blocked the first one with a shield, ducked out of the way to avoid the second, but was caught off-guard by the third. His magical eye popped out of its place and flew in Hermione's direction; she used her wand to drive it away, repelling the object, which fell to the floor and rolled across the room, spinning in all directions –

An angry Moody rushed after it, chasing the eyeball around the room, his attention momentarily diverted from Hermione. She wasted no time and shouted the only spell the experienced wizard could not fight. "_Imperio!_"

The ex-Auror froze, and Hermione felt a connection form in her mind. If the Imperius curse felt like bliss to its victim, that was nothing compared to what it felt like to be the caster, to control someone's will completely … Hermione breathed heavily, feeling slightly dizzy. She had heard about how Lucius had once done it at the Ministry, in front of witnesses, without even blinking, and she admired his self-control. He was probably used to having such power, and it didn't affect him anymore. But to her, it was overwhelming, slightly scary, and it took much self-discipline not to get lost in the sensation.

She knew she could speak to her victim by directing her thoughts at him. _'Go back to the meeting room and act as if nothing happened,' _she said firmly in her mind._ 'Tell no one what you have seen or found out. Tell no one of our duel. Tell no one about this. Do nothing that could give them reason to suspect me.'_

Moody obeyed the instructions, a blank look in his eyes. But Hermione wasn't going to rely on the spell for long. He could learn to resist it any second, just like she had … but it would have looked suspicious if he did not return to the kitchen where everyone, including Dumbledore, was still gathered. No, she was going to wait until the end of the meeting, then instruct him to Apparate to an isolated place – a forest, for instance – where she would follow him and deal with him properly, like the Death Eater that she was.

-

Hermione stayed at the meeting until the very end and was one of the last to leave. It was about time she upheld appearances, she had realised, and now she and Harry were best friends again (or so everyone thought, including Harry himself).

She had also talked to Ginny, trying to talk her out of her depressed condition, much to the tearful gratitude of Mrs Weasley. She still did not speak to Ron, but that wasn't anything unusual – back in their time at Hogwarts, Ron and Hermione used to have violent rows after which they didn't so much as even look at each other for days and sometimes weeks.

Mad-Eye took less than five minutes to deal with, everything going as planned. They would find his body with the Dark Mark shining green in the sky above, and no one would be able to trace the murder back to her.

And now, Hermione was finally back at her house, where she hadn't set foot for days, and she could not put her experience with the Boggart out of her mind.

Her worst fears … the last two involved _his_ death, and the first one … the first one was rejection. It was understandable that she feared being rejected by him above all else, because if he rejected her, she had nowhere to go. She had left everything behind, she had betrayed everyone because of him … everything and everyone she used to care about … she had renounced her old goals, her dreams, her values … she had left her old life behind, to become what he wanted her to be.

He had become her life … she had nothing else left. And if he decided he no longer wanted anything to do with her … she did not know what she would do. She would have nothing to fight for, nothing to do … except to die, perhaps?

A drawling voice cut through her thoughts. "Now what is the cause of your despond this time, Hermione?"

Not for the first time, he had somehow entered her house without making any noise, not even the conventional _crack_ of Apparition. It made her wonder whether his usual noisy Apparition was deliberate, if he could perhaps do it soundlessly, like Voldemort and Dumbledore …

"Some idiotic crook decided to set a couple of Boggarts loose at the Order meeting," she said shortly.

"I see," said Lucius. "Dumbledore must be even more senile than I thought, if he let a _thief_ into his crowd …"

"Oh, he has a whole assortment of odd creatures in his little group," Hermione said offhandedly, glad for the change of topics. "A werewolf, a half-giant, a squib …"

"No vampires?" he hinted with a smirk.

"I don't think he succeeded in turning one of them to his side, though I would not be surprised if he tried. You know, he even sent emissaries to the _giants_," she said with all the incredulity she had felt when she had first been told about Hagrid's mission for the Order, in her fifth year at Hogwarts.

"So I have heard," he drawled. "You faced a Boggart. Were there any – ah – witnesses?"

"Only one – Moody. I … got rid of him."

"Good. The paranoid fool was something of a nuisance with that eye of his … what shape did the Boggart assume?" he asked all of a sudden.

Hermione looked away, silent. Lucius placed a finger under her chin, forcing her to look into his eyes. "Answer me," he commanded.

She looked up, her eyes frank and forthright, more like the innocent girl she had once been rather than the Dark witch she had become. "You."

He stared at her for a second, then shook his head in exasperation. "How easily you forget, Hermione, though I distinctly remember reassuring you on the matter … but if a Boggart is all it takes to make you overlook everything I have said in the last months …"

He gave her a long, searching look. "Perhaps … if you want … would you like a more – tangible – reminder? One that would never come off, similar to the Dark Mark … a sign burnt into your skin, to remind you that you and I are bound together, through struggle and harmony, forever and until the end of time … to remind you that you _belong _to me …"

"Do it," she said suddenly, surprising both of them.

In truth, he had never done this before. But he knew how; he had managed to coax the Dark Lord into explaining the way the spell worked, and he had experimented with it when he had nothing better to do …

"This will hurt … much," he warned her. "Not as much as the Dark Mark, obviously, but nonetheless ... I ask once again, _are you certain_?"

"Just do it, Lucius. Please."

He hesitated for a second, trying to keep his instincts at bay. She was begging him for something that felt worse than the Cruciatus Curse … and it was so tempting … how he wanted to do it …

And then he felt it. Power. Something called to him, his blood tingled, itching to do this, and he could hold back no longer. His self-control was gone, and yet, he had never felt more in control. This was what he was behind the mask.

His true self took over, the masks and restrictions he had placed on himself in the Dark Lord's service torn to shreds. In a fluid motion, he pulled out his wand and touched the tip to the delicate, unmarked skin of Hermione's right forearm. She shuddered visibly. His hand closed around her wrist, holding her arm in place.

Hermione squeezed her eyes shut, preparing herself for the pain. And it burnt. He spoke no incantation, but the wand pressed to her skin grew hot, unbearably hot, and she tried to jerk back, so much it hurt … she tried to wrench her arm away, but was held in place by a hard, unyielding grip. Tears formed in her eyes and trickled down her cheeks. This was worse than the Cruciatus Curse, worse than when Voldemort had imprinted his mark on her skin … Hermione screamed.

It was over before she knew it; the pain ebbed away, leaving behind only a faint itch. She looked up at the man who had done this to her. His grey eyes were gleaming with power, and Hermione shivered, realising that she had fallen to her knees on the floor of the lounge. She shakily tried to stand up, but something stopped her from doing so. An instinctive knowledge that this was how it was meant to be, how he wanted it to be. Hermione dismissed the peculiar impression, focusing instead on the brand that stood out clearly against her pale skin.

She had expected this to hurt; she had been warned. Only it was much more painful than when she had received the Dark Mark. And he did not even speak the spell out loud. _Oh dear_ …

Hermione looked at the symbol that had appeared on her skin. Much more detailed than the Dark Mark, more vivid too … it was a diminutive image of the Malfoy crest, a dagger pointed upwards, surrounded by two snakes intertwined, with a crown above … only this one was different. There was something else in the design, something that had not been on the representations of the Malfoy crest she had seen so far. There was the moon on one side and the sun on the other …

"It looks different … the sun and the moon, they weren't on the tapestry …" she remarked. Lucius looked down at her from where he sat, and she knew he was pleased by her reaction of academic curiosity, by the fact that she did not complain, that she made no mention of the pain she had just endured.

She looked so desirable like that, kneeling at his feet, her eyes brimming with tears, crystalline droplets clinging to her eyelashes … so vulnerable … and completely at his mercy. If he concentrated on it, he could feel the emotions she was experiencing through the link that had been created between them, and he knew he could also send her flashes of his mood if he wished.

He brushed her tears away with his hand and drew her in for a kiss. Gentle yet passionate, it lasted for a few moments, after which he let her fall back upon the ground.

He made no move to help her out of her position on the floor. He answered her earlier comment as though there was nothing unusual about the situation:

"This is more than a mere representation of the Malfoy family crest. This is my personal shield. Every member of the line has one, constituted of the family crest, plus a distinguishing feature, different for each of us. Draco's is – obviously – a dragon. Narcissa does not have one, as she is not of Malfoy blood. My father's, as I remember, was a sceptre. And mine is, well … you can see …"

"The sun and the moon … what do they signify?" asked Hermione. "What's the meaning?"

"Think, Hermione … what is the role of those two planets?" he questioned. "What do they have in common?"

"The sun … the sun sheds light upon the earth during the day … and the moon shines down on us at night. That's their role … to give us light."

"Exactly. That is indeed what they symbolise – the light. Not necessarily in the word's literal sense … but as you can see, it is my personal mark. The light. It is my name. The Light of Dark Faith. Paradoxical, is it not?"

"Depends on the way you look at it, I suppose …" said Hermione, wincing as the brand gave a particularly sharp tingle.

He extended his hand to touch the tattoo, which was an angry red colour, like the Dark Mark, only somewhat brighter. At the contact of his hand, the image turned jet-black, and it stopped burning. His touch had a cooling effect on it, and as if by magic, the pain disappeared completely. Satisfied, he withdrew his hand, leaving Hermione to wonder how he knew she no longer felt the throbbing sensation that had been there a moment earlier.

"It has all the functions of the Dark Mark. It will enable you to locate me regardless of where I am. It also gives me the power to call you to me at any hour of day or night … when you will feel the sign burn, all you have to do is to place your palm on it, and you will appear immediately by my side. Naturally, this will not function if either of us is in an Anti-Apparition zone, nor will I call on you during your duty hours."

Hermione contemplated his words for a moment. "That is convenient, my Lord," she said at last, smiling. "By the way, I would say it looks a lot more … _stately_ than that thing," she gestured to the mark on her other arm.

"I would advise against repeating what you just said in our _master_'s presence. He might not appreciate the – ah – competition."

"I know … but I have to tell you this," she took a deep breath. "It hurt much more than the Dark Lord's mark, Lucius … you must remember, I did not scream at the initiation …"

_Draw the conclusion …_

There was a sudden spark of triumph in his cold eyes. It was gone in less than a second, leaving Hermione to wonder if it had been there at all.

"You are saying …" he started slowly.

"I'm saying that you are more powerful than our _half-blood_ master," she said boldly. "Think about it … the Dark Lord gained most of his power through the Dark rituals he has performed on himself. All these experiments … to gain immortality, yes, but also to increase his magical power. But his power level did not exceed yours to start with … in fact, this proves that you surpass him in natural power, since most of his legendary power is not his by nature, but _borrowed_ through those Dark transformations …"

"And how did you come to that conclusion, Hermione?"

She tilted her head to the side, gazing up at him candidly. "Logic, my Lord. Nothing but logic."

Smiling in a pleased manner, he stood and pulled her to her feet. His arms snaked around her slim waist, and soon, he was kissing her again.

It was cold and windy on the streets of London that night. But in the arms of the man who was the master of both her heart and her life, Hermione felt anything but cold.

His hand crept over to where his mark was carved in the flesh of her arm, hidden under her right sleeve. Hermione let out a quiet gasp.

"Do bear in mind that if you ever betray me …" His voice was menacingly soft as he spoke in her ear, "the price will be your life."

"I know," she said simply. "Believe me, I _know_."

-

Hermione approached her desk, on which were neat stacks of books, a dozen quills and bottles of ink of all imaginable colours, along with a well-ordered pile of parchment.

And then she noticed a black spot on one of the scrolls. It seemed to be … moving? _What on earth …?_

It took Hermione a few seconds to grasp what she was seeing and to _recognise_ the thing crawling through her papers. When she did, her eyebrows shot up in shock and she let out a shout of anger. _"Argh!"_

"What's the matter, Hermione?" Lucius drawled, walking over to stand beside her. When he caught sight of the insect on the desk, he paused.

"Well, well, well," he said maliciously, while casually wrapping an arm around the Auror's waist, "it appears that our favourite reporter has got herself into something of a tight hole …"

The thing scurried towards the open window, trying to get away. Hermione hastily shut the window, shuddering at the very idea of the disaster the snooping Animagus would cause if it were to escape right now.

The unregistered Animagus would be elated to finally get revenge on 'Miss Perfect' who had blackmailed her. In fact, Hermione was sure its insect heart had to be bursting from excitement right now. And she could already imagine the headlines in the _Witch Weekly_ magazine. It would be something along the lines of _Muggle-Born Auror and You-Know-Who's Right-Hand Man: A Ghastly Affair._ Hermione chuckled quietly. As if she would ever let that happen.

"Oh no, you don't," Hermione snarled in an unintentional – and quite scary – imitation of Moody, drawing her wand. "_Impedimenta!_"

The beetle froze, the peculiar markings around its eyes standing out clearly when it wasn't moving. Markings that resembled winged glasses …

Hermione, who had her wand pointed firmly at the nosy little creature, grinned nastily. A flash of pale blue light shot out of the tip of her wand and hit the creepy-crawly. It rose into the air, writhing and twisting in all directions – another jet of light, white this time, surged from Hermione's wand, and suddenly, the beetle was growing in size at an alarming speed. In a second, there was no sign of the insect that had been there a moment earlier.

In its place stood a woman dressed in a hideous raincoat over her acid-green robes, her hands clenched around a crocodile-skin handbag. Her hair was styled in neat curls and she was wearing winged spectacles incrusted with jewels. But the most striking detail was that she looked as though she was about to faint, judging by the sickly greenish colour of her face. Her eyes were bulging and her jaw was hanging open.

Hermione, whose wand was aimed directly at the reporter's heart, glanced over at her lover, only to find a cold smile on his face. She could _sense_ his amusement, and it caused her worries to diminish. Then she wondered how she could possibly be feeling his emotions. A tingling sensation in her right forearm gave her the answer, and only then did she realise that the connection forged between them by that particular spell was much deeper than she had originally thought.

"Ah, Skeeter."


	16. The Weasleys' Secret

_Disclaimer__: The Harry Potter universe and its components belong to their creator, J. K. Rowling. __No money is being made and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended with this work._

A/N: The pace of the story is going to increase rapidly starting with the next chapter. We are getting close to the end already, though the major events have yet to happen and the ending itself will be split into several chapters. There will be (approximately) 28 chapters in total. And I'm hesitating about saying this, but I don't want anyone to stop reading because the story is getting so angsty, so I'll say this once and for all: _there will be a happy ending_. Well, sort of...

* * *

— CHAPTER SIXTEEN —

_**The Weasleys' Secret**_

Rita Skeeter let out a shriek as she found herself face to face with the notorious Death Eater whose picture was on all the official Ministry posters in shop windows, and who was hunted by every Auror in the country. Or so she had thought.

"What – _what_ –" the reporter gasped, her eyes shifting between the famous Auror and the convicted Death Eater.

She closed her gaping mouth abruptly and clutched her handbag – which undoubtedly contained her most precious possession, the Quick-Quote Quill – closer to herself. She was now trembling from a mix of fear and excitement, muttering short phrases to herself in an audible voice.

"Miss Perfect not so perfect after all! Oh, this is going to get the first page in all papers … I will be the wealthiest reporter there is …" She was already reaching into her bag to pull out the quill, when her hand froze in mid-motion and she looked fearfully at the _very_ angry pair of Death Eaters (she could see the Dark Mark under Granger's turned-up sleeve).

Lucius sneered. "You will do nothing of the sort, Skeeter, not if you wish to leave this room without the symptoms of the killing curse on your body."

"And with your sanity intact," added Hermione, smiling cruelly. "You will find that I am nearly as proficient at the Cruciatus Curse as my friend Bellatrix."

The reporter's eyes lost their glint of excitement rather suddenly.

"I must confess, Skeeter," said Lucius maliciously, "that I find myself in doubt as to whether the Azkaban guards will listen to the words of an unregistered Animagus known for her defamatory discourses against the Ministry."

"That's right," said Hermione. "As I'm sure you remember, Rita, I am an Auror, and I can place you under arrest right now. You would find yourself in the Azkaban fortress before you can say 'traitor'. My true loyalties aside, I am one of Minister Fudge's most trusted Aurors, and you have _no idea_ how _delighted_ my boss would be to learn of your disgrace …"

Rita snorted loudly. "_An Auror!_" she shrieked, laughing shrilly. "Some sham of an Auror you are, you – you fraud! You're a danger to the Ministry of Magic, that's what you are."

Hermione exchanged a smirk with Lucius.

"But the Ministry – or the public, for that matter – is not aware of that, Rita," she said affably. "All they know is that I am the Muggle-born friend of Harry Potter. If you were to come forward claiming I am … what, a spy? A Death Eater?" Hermione laughed. "You are notorious for your old grudge against Harry Potter and me. No one will listen to you, and you know it."

"Doesn't stop me from trying!" shrieked Rita.

"And that is why," said Lucius, "you will not get a chance to try. We will not let you."

Hermione nodded. Then something occurred to her. "You know her secret?" she asked, turning to her lover in surprise. She thought she was the only one to know of Rita's Animagus form … actually, she should have expected that he knew it, seeing as his son had been well acquainted with the 'beetle' in their fourth year.

"Indeed I do, though I was not aware that _you_ did as well, Hermione."

"Miss Perfect caught me in my Animagus form and blackmailed me into not writing anything she didn't approve of for an entire year," Rita explained before Hermione could say a word. "Much like you did, Mr Malfoy, only her requirements were quite the opposite of yours – I was not allowed to write an article that showed Harry Potter in a bad light, or I would find myself in Azkaban."

"I see," drawled Lucius. "And when did this happen, Hermione?"

"At the end of my fourth year at Hogwarts, and all the duration of my fifth,"

"I should have guessed. I admit I did wonder where the nosy Ms Skeeter had disappeared to … clever for a fifteen-year-old, my dear, most clever," he said approvingly.

"Well! Who would have guessed, eh, _Miss Perfect_? And I thought you were going after Harry Potter … but of course, I should've foreseen it that you would end up with _him_ instead," said Skeeter spitefully. "After all, you two are exceptionally alike."

"Could you please let me deal with her, Lucius?" Hermione implored, a malicious glint in her eyes.

"I insist that you are taking more after Bellatrix every day," he said with a smirk, "but by all means go ahead; I am certain I will find this entertaining." He sat in an armchair and watched the scene lazily.

Hermione turned her attention back to the journalist. "Let's make a deal, Rita. You keep silent for now. But _if _we ever do decide to make this common knowledge, you will get the honour of writing the article – containing exactly what we say, of course – and if it gets the front page, you will get the credit and the fee for it. That is, when we decide and not a day earlier. So, what do you think of my proposition?"

Rita's eyes had widened greedily as soon as she pieced together the words 'front page' and 'fee'. "I'll do it," she said eagerly.

The Auror laughed. "Too bad I don't trust you," she said, raising her wand, but the reporter promptly turned into a beetle again. "_Impedimenta!_" cried Hermione for the second time.

Hit by Hermione's spell, the insect fell back upon the table. The spy waved her wand and an empty glass jar materialised in front of her. She removed the lid, scooped up the struggling beetle into her hand, and dropped it into the jar.

"I believe this feels familiar, doesn't it, Rita? There," said Hermione, tapping the jar with her wand, "an Unbreakable Charm just like last time. This way you cannot transform and use magic, because there isn't enough space to transform. Nice, is it not?"

She transfigured a sheet of parchment into a few fresh leaves and twigs of grass and pushed them into the jar. The beetle tried to crawl out while the lid was off, but it was a failed attempt because the Animagus kept slipping on the glass walls every time it tried to climb them. Then the jar was closed, forestalling any further attempts.

Hermione moved the jar to the side of her desk, like a decorative item. The beetle tried to climb the walls of its glass cage again.

She shot the insect a contemptuous glance. "Patience, Rita," she said with a grin. "You will be staying here for a _long_ time … until it is safe for us to let you out, if ever. Not that it bothers me – I have a cat and an owl, and now I also have my own pet beetle. How nice …"

"And try not to aggravate Hermione when she is working," added a smirking Lucius, "or you might find yourself the subject of a most unfortunate experiment. I am certain that she has speculated about what effect the Cruciatus Curse would have on an insect of your kind … haven't you, my dear?"

"You are right, I _have_ wondered … and not just any insect, no, I used to wonder how long a _beetle Animagus_ would last under that spell," admitted Hermione, twirling her wand in her hand. She had never forgiven the reporter for calling her a "silly little girl".

"I daresay you will have the chance to find out," said Lucius with a malevolent look at the glass jar, before kissing Hermione under the horrified gaze of the beetle's black eyes. His hand closed around her wrist and he led her from the room.

-

"I have been wondering for a long time, Lucius," Hermione started tentatively, "why is it that you hate the Weasley family so much?"

His cold eyes flashed at the name 'Weasley'. He stared at her for a few seconds and Hermione was started to think she should not have asked. Then he put a hand on her shoulder.

"Well, I must admit that I have been expecting you to ask this question. Let me tell you a story, Hermione," he said. "It dates back to the times when the House of Malfoy was at the height of power. I need not start in the beginning, for you already know it. But there are details that you do not know …

"Lord Altair Malfoy had several advisors, one of whom he trusted and favoured above all others and whom he even called his friend. This advisor, or _counsel_ as he was titled, was the only heir to one of the oldest and richest families in the kingdom, ranking just behind us. But he was a greedy man, you understand, greedy and power-hungry, and Dumbledore managed to convert him to his Muggle-loving outlook. As you see, he was not content with being second best, and when Dumbledore promised him what he had always coveted …"

He paused. "Because, you see, in exchange for his family's backing in the rebellion, Dumbledore offered him something no wizard could resist. He promised to make him Minister for Magic if the rebellion was successful in overthrowing the monarchy. He seized the opportunity and became Dumbledore's major benefactor. He financed the revolt and passed information to the rebels, information that made my ancestor's assassination possible."

"Oh, that's awful," said Hermione. "What kind of person would betray a friend to the enemy to be _killed_ just because they've been offered a job?" Percy had given up his _family_ for the Ministry, but that was different … and still wrong …

"I thought you were rather familiar with the act of treason yourself, Hermione …" he said softly.

Her eyes widened. "But I didn't do it for money or – or out of cowardice. I –" She bit her tongue. _I did it for love …_

_And nothing that's done in the name of love can be wrong?_

Hermione looked away. "And what happened next? Did – did Dumbledore keep his word?"

"Once the family was murdered and its remaining heir had no chance of regaining his status, he revealed his role as Dumbledore's greatest ally and was named Minister for Magic, as promised. However …" he smiled slightly, "he did not get the happy ending he had been hoping for."

"How so?" Hermione prompted with interest, "What happened?"

_And what does this have to do with the Weasleys?_

"The young Eridanus Malfoy watched Dumbledore murder his family, but survived. Dumbledore saw him as no great menace, a mere adolescent … and that was a serious mistake … not for the champion of Light himself, no, but for his main ally, as Eridanus had seen them together that fateful morning and made the connection. He understood that it was this _friend_ of his grandfather who had led Dumbledore into the manor, and he swore vengeance on the one who had arranged his family's destruction."

"And …" said Hermione as he fell silent again. He smiled very coldly, sending a chill of foreboding down her spine.

"One night, after years of prudent scheming, he did indeed make the blood traitor and his family pay. He arranged for the gold in their Gringotts vault to be transferred discreetly into his own, without their knowledge, of course. You see, the Goblins respect you the more money you have, and their esteem for the name Malfoy has never waned. Hence, the heir convinced the Goblins that it was mere justice, compensation due to us by the traitor who had taken our power and position. The Goblins reported afterwards that a Dark wizard had broken into the bank at night and robbed several vaults, and one particular vault just happened to be affected more than the others, as it was left empty. No one knew that the contents of the Malfoy vault had increased mysteriously during the night … and even though the blood traitor suspected the truth, he could never prove it."

"Brilliant …" she said in an awed voice. "Truly brilliant …"

"That same night, Eridanus set fire to the sumptuous house of the former counsel, who had by then retired from his position as Minister for Magic, and cursed his bloodline so that they would never be able to regain wealth unless a future heir to the Malfoy line chooses to lift the curse. But to this day, no Malfoy has had the smallest inclination of doing so, nor have the blood traitor's descendants ever apologised for their forefather's sins. True Muggle-loving fools they have become … they still live where the house used to stand, though they have only managed to build a dilapidated fleapit in its place, and the surrounding vast grounds have fallen into ruin … no money, you see," Lucius smirked at his wide-eyed listener.

_So that's why the other Hogwarts governors believed him when he threatened to curse their families if they didn't endorse Dumbledore's suspension_, Hermione figured out. They must have known his family had already done something like that in the past, only no one could prove it, and they were too scared …

"And this," he concluded, "is how started an everlasting feud between two families who had once been the closest of friends … much like Slytherin and Gryffindor, in fact."

Hermione was speechless, mostly because she had realised how many things there were that she never knew. And they used to call her the know-it-all … But it couldn't be what she was thinking, could it? No, that was impossible. _They_ had never been into the Dark Arts, much less followers of a Dark Lord …

"Why did your ancestor let them live, when they had done such a terrible thing? I would have killed them," said Hermione.

Lucius grinned maliciously. "He could indeed have killed them all easily, but he chose a more suitable – and lasting – vengeance. They stole our position from us, and we took away all money they had, preventing them from ever regaining it. He condemned them and their descendants to live in the worst conditions known to wizardkind, for eternity or until their name dies out, which is improbable, judging by the number of children they tend to produce ..."

His eyes looked cruel and unforgiving, and he spoke in the same tone he used to insult Arthur Weasley. In fact …

Hermione's forehead furrowed thoughtfully. It couldn't be …

But it _would_ explain everything …

"What is the traitorous family's name? Is it –?" she asked with trepidation. She had a suspicion, and it was confirmed when he answered –

"Weasley."

Hermione gaped.

"I can't believe this! The Weasleys, once a Dark family …"

"It is in their name, you know," said Lucius. "Weasley is a derivative of the word _weasel_, which has a very Dark connotation … the weasel is traditionally known as a deceitful and malignant animal, and the name suited that particular family quite well. They were very much into the Dark Arts, and there was not one Weasley child who wasn't sorted into Slytherin, not until Dumbledore converted them to the ways of the Light.

"It is also said that redheads are predisposed to treason … the Weasleys have proven to be just the example."

So the allegory against redheads also existed in the wizarding world, then. It was a known concept among Muggles, and it was backed by the bible, apparently. In Muggle Christianity, it was mentioned that Judas Iscariot, the disciple who had been bribed to betray Jesus, had red hair …

"But … do today's Weasleys know all this? The role they played in the past?" Hermione asked, still utterly shocked.

"I think not," he said. "You have noticed, of course, that the Weasleys hold no respect whatsoever for traditions … for generations they have been taught to loathe the name Malfoy, but I doubt they know – or care – how the enmity really started."

Hermione still had difficulty grasping what she had just found out. At last, she merely nodded, knowing that her perception of the family she used to be friends with would never be the same.

Lucius pulled her closer to him, fully aware that he had just shattered one of the last connections she had to the Light side.

"I will be leading an attack on the Fawcetts tonight, Hermione," he informed her, throwing a lazy glance at the grandfather clock on the wall, "and as I am convinced you would be eager to take part, I have taken the initiative of inviting you along …"

"But the Dark Lord said I was not to risk my position like that," she said. "Has he changed his mind?"

"The Dark Lord wishes that you remain his spy, Hermione, and as we all know, spies do not take part in offensive moves … however, you know I have never been particularly good at following orders –"

His eyes gleamed with amusement, and Hermione thought, _Yes, you are far better at ordering people around – I should know._

"– and as I doubt the Dark Lord would be_ too_ displeased with you for this …"

Hermione's eyes widened. "All right, I get it. You are ordering me to join you on this dangerous, reckless, extremely unwise, and downright _insane_ idea of defying the Dark Lord. Right?"

"An excessively dramatic description, but that would indeed be _quite_ correct," he drawled.

"But that's extremely risky! What if he _does_ get angry about it? The Dark Lord would –"

"I never thought I would see the day when you would be defending Lord Voldemort, Hermione," he cut in coolly.

She flinched at the name, and then she stared at him, flabbergasted.

"You cannot carry on this way, Hermione," he said, standing up. "You need to decide with whom your loyalties lie. Is it me … or is it he?"

She recalled the Boggart-Voldemort's words: _You are not loyal to me_ …

She sighed. "You know the answer to that question, Lucius."

"In that case, perhaps you can take out your Death Eater attire," he said briskly, with another, more meaningful glance at the clock. "You are delaying me."

Wordlessly, Hermione pulled out the black robes and mask from the cupboard where she had hidden them. In a minute, she was dressed in a way that concealed her identity entirely. Lucius pulled up his own hood, but she wondered why he bothered – everyone knew he was a Death Eater.

They Disapparated to Ottery-St-Catchpole, the village that housed the wizarding homes of the Lovegoods, the Fawcetts, and the Diggorys. Regrettably, the Weasleys did not live there anymore – they had not returned to The Burrow since their relocation to Grimmauld Place many years ago.

-

Long after midnight, the Dark Mark glimmered in the sky over the British community of Ottery-St-Catchpole, eliciting screams of terror from its magical inhabitants. Under the glow of the green skull, two figures swathed from head to toe in black walked hand in hand, not sharing the general hysteria. Snow was falling from the sky, but the white flakes melted as soon as they touched the couple's clothes, and the black fabric remained dry as if by magic.

Only their eyes were visible through their masks, one pair cold grey and the other chestnut brown.

Their comrades, who had helped in the attack, had already Disapparated, but they were in no hurry.

"Perhaps you could also join me on some of my Muggle-hunting escapades –" the wizard said in a drawling voice, "– of which the Dark Lord does not know," he continued just as his companion opened her mouth to make an objection. "I have always acted this way; the Dark Lord does not begrudge me for it."

"Maybe not, but he _would_ begrudge _me_ for taking initiative like that," the witch said uneasily.

"I am a higher-ranking Death Eater than you, Hermione, and as such, you are obligated to do as I say," he said smoothly.

"Unless the Dark Lord expressly told me not to – which he did," she countered.

"Which he did _not_," he rectified. "The Dark Lord merely asked you not to – ah – '_partake in any attacks_'; he never said anything against a bit of Muggle-hunting for fun, which clearly does not fit the definition of an attack …"

Hermione gaped at the devious way he twisted the words to his advantage, so that she could not find anything to retort.

"Oh, all right then," she said, admitting defeat.

-

Early in the morning, Hermione Apparated to the Atrium of the Ministry of Magic and if one looked carefully enough, it could be seen that she had not had much sleep the previous night. Not looking where she was going, she nearly collided with a young red-haired wizard dressed in pristine blue robes, who succeeded in leaping out of the way at the last moment.

The wizard, wearing horn-rimmed spectacles, was carrying a stack of folders bearing the official Ministry of Magic seal and stamped with 'TOP SECRET' in large, red letters. Nothing unusual, just some confidential paperwork and legislative material for the leading officials in the government: the Minister for Magic, his primary advisors, and the Head of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement, alias Percy himself.

"Hello, Percy," said Hermione.

"Good morning, Hermione." He shook her hand. "Got to go, the Minister is waiting," he said in a rush before disappearing in the swarm of witches and wizards streaming from the fireplaces on the left-hand side.

Hermione joined the knot of people waiting for the lift. Her red robes stood out in the crowd, and several sleepy-looking officials acknowledged her with nods, waves, and the occasional "G'mornin'."

"Hey, Granger!" greeted the aggressive-sounding voice of Zacharias Smith.

"Hello, Zacharias. How many raids yesterday?"

It was the typical friendly chat between Aurors, comparing each other's number of raids and captures.

"Four, and all of them pointless! There was not a single Death Eater in sight, and I had to skulk around in old, abandoned houses digging for some Dark stuff that wasn't even there!" Smith's voice pulsed with indignation.

"Well," she said evenly, "I had six raids, and no Death Eaters there either – I only managed to get a few scrolls of Dark material."

Her fellow Auror clapped his hands together. "That makes two of us. Really, this is getting ridiculous! When are they going to see sense?"

"Who?" she asked.

"The Minister and the Wizengamot. It's about time they let us use the Unforgivable Curses on those filthy Dark wizards. During the last war, Aurors had this power – then why don't we?"

"Don't you think that's a bit harsh, Zacharias?" she said carefully. She was aware that the people around them were listening intently to the conversation.

"_Harsh_? Not at all! It's not fair if we're forbidden to kill them, when _they_ have no qualms about killing us! Why are we waiting for them to kill us off?"

"But … there is always Azkaban," said Hermione, but Smith shook his head.

"You know it's pointless. They don't stay in there for long – You-Know-Who can get them out whenever he wants; no one can stop him! There's only one effective thing to do, and it's to kill them before You-Know-Who can save them," the skinny Auror said strongly, drowning out the magical voice announcing "Level Two".

Before they could continue the conversation, the lift came to a halt and its golden grilles parted with a loud clanging noise. Recognising their floor, the two Aurors jostled their way to the doors and got off.

Upon emerging from the lift on level two, instead of going right and following Zacharias into the corridor that led to the heavy oak door that constituted the entrance to the Auror Headquarters, Hermione turned left and found herself in another hallway, one she did not use often. She walked past an enchanted window through which she could see a bright, sunny sky littered with clouds, courtesy of Magical Maintenance, and towards a door at the far end that bore the words _Wizengamot Administration Services_ in silver letters.

A solemn-looking witch wearing the plum-coloured uniform of the Wizengamot, her hair styled in a long plait, was coming in her direction.

"Susan! How are you doing?" called Hermione.

"Good morning, Hermione," Susan Bones said in a tired voice. Since the death of her aunt, Susan seemed to have aged ten years. "Nice necklace you've got there," she remarked, looking at the emerald pendant on a gold chain around Hermione's neck.

"Thanks. I rather thought so myself …"

"It must've been expensive … where did you buy it?" inquired Susan curiously.

"I did not. It was a gift."

"Looks rather expensive for a gift … what brings you to the Wizengamot's offices, Hermione?" Susan asked suddenly.

"I need to check something in the archives," she answered.

"Oh! The archives are that way," Susan pointed to a door on the right.

"Thanks," said Hermione.

She pulled the door open. A witch in dark green robes greeted her at the entrance. "Hello, I'm the Keeper of the Wizengamot Archives," she said cheerfully, sticking out her hand.

"Hermione Granger of the Auror Office," she introduced herself, shaking the woman's hand.

"Granger? The famous Auror? It's a pleasure to finally meet you," said the archivist, who was wearing square spectacles. "So how can I help you today?"

"You needn't bother. I would rather search on my own," said Hermione. "No offence, but I've spent the majority of my time at Hogwarts in the library, and I like to do my research independently."

"As you prefer," said the surprised archivist. Hermione managed a rueful smile and looked around the vast room. Three of the four walls were lined with shelves from floor to ceiling.

On the fourth wall, there were two long tapestries, one of which listed the names of all the former Chiefs of the Wizards' Council and the other, Britain's former Ministers for Magic. Hermione approached the second tapestry without really thinking about it.

She looked at the line at the very bottom, which said,

_1998-present: Fudge, Cornelius O._

The line just above it was identical except for the date. Fudge had been re-elected, though Hermione could not fathom what the public saw in him. The man had none of the qualities essential for the leader of a country, honestly.

_1990-1998: Fudge, Cornelius O._ was preceded by _1984-1990: Bagnold, Millicent_. In wizarding Britain, elections were held every eight years, unless a Minister retired – like Madam Bagnold had done after six years on the job.

Then Hermione's eyes travelled upwards and all the way to the seventeenth century, where she saw a name that felt awfully familiar. The line right after _1845-1853: Meliflua, Cepheus _read,

_1853: Lestrange, Antarès_

There was a gap after that, and the next date was exactly forty years after. And the name caught her eye. It was a name she would never have expected to see on a list of former Ministers for Magic, at least not until recently.

_1893-1901: Weasley, Nathan R._

Hmm, Nathan Weasley … wasn't his signature on the bottom of the act that banned the use of the Unforgivable Curses on Muggles? Hermione distinctly remembered seeing it there, only she had never noticed the words 'Minister for Magic' under the name. Then there was the much more recent Muggle Protection Act, signed by Arthur N. Weasley, but that was an entirely different matter …

Suddenly, Hermione found herself imagining the next line appearing at the bottom of the list, after Fudge's. _2004: Granger, Hermione A. _The first ever Muggle-born Minister for Magic.

And the last.

In her mind's eye, the list seemed to cut itself off after that, leaving her name being the last line, and none came after …_ Dream on, Hermione_, she admonished herself, suddenly realising that the archivist had been trying to gain her attention for quite some time.

"Sorry, what did you say?"

The witch smiled knowingly. "Distracted, were you? You remind me of Percy Weasley – he comes here often, and each time, he stops in front of that tapestry and his eyes glaze over … don't worry, Miss Granger, you aren't the only one fantasising about seeing your own name on that list. He's an ambitious young man, that Weasley …"

Hermione felt a surge of disgust at the name 'Weasley'. But, she reminded herself, at least Percy was more decent than the rest of them …

"Excuse me, but could you tell me …" Hermione started, looking curiously at the archivist, "why is there an interruption after 1853? What happened?" She knew the answer, of course, but she wanted to hear the official, Ministry version of the events. And what role _Minister Lestrange_ played in them.

"Oh," said the bespectacled witch, who looked disconcerted. _I bet no one has paid attention to that little detail before_, thought Hermione. "Well, the Minister elected in 1853 …" the archivist trailed off uneasily.

"Miss Lestrange?" prompted Hermione.

"Yes, Lestrange. Well, she … she didn't even last a week as Minister," the Keeper of Archives dropped her voice to a horrified whisper. "It turned out she had been working for the Dark Lord of the time. It is rumoured – and hear me, these rumours are the only thing we know, so it's pretty likely they're true … it is said that she helped him take over the government. That she stepped back and allowed him to kill everyone who opposed the Dark side, and even _participated_ in it … and the day after, all the papers reported his investiture as the new leader … to this day we have no idea how it happened, or what became of Lestrange …" The witch shook her head.

_Oh, I know what became of her, all right_, thought Hermione. _She became Antarès Malfoy, that's what._

"Terrible times … terrible times these were. Thank heavens for Dumbledore …" the Keeper of the Archives said reverently, as though in prayer.

Anger and outrage flashed in Hermione's brown eyes. "Thanks indeed for Dumbledore … the _saviour_," she said, aversion evident in her voice, though the archivist mistook it for awe. It was funny how people only heard what they wanted to hear, and were deaf to what they weren't expecting. _The saviour – the murderer_. "Quite the hero, wasn't he? Oh, I am sorry, but I have wasted too much time on conversation. I must get back to my research."

"Of course, Miss Granger. I apologise for distracting you … I know you have a busy life, being an Auror and all …" the woman said with sympathy.

_Busy life?_ _You don't know just how busy_, thought Hermione, walking off towards the shelves on the far wall of the room.

The Wizengamot Archives contained records of all the decrees, acts and edicts that had ever been approved by the Ministry or its predecessor, the Wizards' Council. The thousands of scrolls were classified by chronological order, and as Hermione did not want to have to sift through all of them, she ran her wand across the shelves and used a charm that would make it emit an orange light whenever she came upon something of interest.

She spent her lunch break researching wizarding law. She had learnt the basis of the Wizengamot Charter of Rights at the Auror Academy, but there were many clauses and regulations that weren't part of the Charter. Most of these were ancient, and so accepted by the magical community that no one ever questioned where they came from or when they had been passed.

The first relevant scroll she uncovered was a decree, adopted many centuries ago, that stated that with the approval of the Wizengamot, the Minister for Magic had the power to change the country's political structure (from democracy to monarchy, for example).

The Wizengamot was the wizard High Court. It was also the legislative body of the Ministry of Magic. A bill had to be voted on and approved by the Wizengamot before it could become law. But who appointed the people on the Wizengamot?

Hermione found the answer to that question in Clause Two, section A, of the Decree for the Nomination and Dismissal of Wizengamot Officers. The decree itself, signed somewhere in the 1520s, read as follows:

_a) The appointment of Wizengamot officers and warlocks is entirely to the discretion of the Minister for Magic. _

_b) Any witch or wizard who is of age, has been residing in Great Britain or Ireland for at least five years and has no criminal record can be appointed to sit on the Wizengamot if nominated by the Minister for Magic and accepting of the position and the responsibilities that accompany it._

_c) The Minister for Magic can relieve a Wizengamot member of his or her position at any time, for any or no reason. _

_d) Wizengamot members may resign from their position at any time, for any or no reason._

It all came down to one thing: Fudge had an awful lot of power. He had to get the laws he passed approved by the Wizengamot, but he could appoint whomever he wanted on the Wizengamot (as long as they were British citizens and weren't deprived of legal rights) and dismiss those who spoke out against him. And keeping in mind that it was the Wizengamot that elected the Minister for Magic …

_So that's how they did it_, deduced Hermione. Antarès Lestrange must have proclaimed wizarding Britain a blood monarchy as soon as she was named Minister for Magic … and as the Wizengamot had probably been composed of the old pure-blood families back in these days – after she had given notice to those who would not have been favourable to the change – they had given their support heartily …

But this was not the only fascinating knowledge she acquired that day.

In fact, she also stumbled upon a very interesting text, a rule that had existed for thousands of years and was still in effect. The information it contained was so mundane, so basic, and so _essential_ that Hermione was shocked she had never heard of it after having lived in the wizarding world for over a decade.

In the wizarding world, many laws and traditions dated back to the Middle Ages, and had not been modified since. Among Muggles, such customs would have been deemed outdated and discriminatory, but to wizards, they were normality.

And according to a law that had become a tradition, a witch automatically attained her husband's blood status upon marriage. It meant that if a half-blood witch married a pure-blood wizard, she would be legally considered a pure-blood. And the same occurred if she was a Muggle-born.

It was an archaic convention that clearly discriminated against women, because if a pure-blood witch got married to a wizard of lesser status, she would be cast out by her family for making a _misalliance_. For example, when Andromeda Black married the Muggle-born Ted Tonks, she lost her status as a pure-blood and could be considered a Muggle-born herself, thus bringing shame upon the family into which she was born.

But when Hermione's eyes first fell upon that paragraph, she had blinked in disbelief, her breathing had quickened, and she had felt her eyes fill with tears. She would not stay a Mudblood for ever! She had thought her Muggle parentage was a curse that would follow her until the end of her life, that there was no escape … she had long since lost hope. But she had just been proved wrong, and it was probably one of the happiest moments of her life so far. Oh yes, hope … hope was a beautiful thing.

All she had to do was to get married to a pure-blood wizard, and no one would ever call her a Mudblood again.

But …

Hermione froze at the implications. Get married … she could have done so many times already. Ernie, Ron … even Rabastan Lestrange, who by all signs was as smitten with her as Viktor Krum had once been, had either proposed to her outright (in Ernie's case), or at least hinted at it. And yet she hadn't even considered the idea … nor would she now. She would not … she _could_ not.

She belonged to one man, and she would stay his for ever. And she knew he would never make her part of the Malfoy family, for the fundamental reason that he already had a wife.

Then again …

She was a Death Eater.

And to all Death Eaters, there was a rule to live by …

_Impedio Oblitteranda Est._

Slowly, a smile spread across Hermione's face. It was a smile that held at once hope and joy, ambition and triumph, malice and anticipation … it was not a kind smile. It was a smile that the world would one day learn to fear …

Most importantly, it was a smile of determination. It was time to act. She had stood back and let things happen for too long. Now it was time to fight for herself … it was time to _do_ something, to attempt to achieve something she could only dream of …

She had a long way to go, but perhaps now was the time to start … before it was too late.

She had made a resolution, when she lay dying at St Mungo's hospital … she had sworn she would destroy the one who had tried to annihilate her. The one who stood in her path …

Without a glance at the Keeper of the Archives, who was busy cataloguing books on a nearby shelf, Hermione replaced the scrolls in their right places and left the room.

Later that day, she was given the mission to raid a house presumably harbouring dodgy individuals. The house was empty, of course, because its inhabitants had somehow been warned about the raid. Or at least that was what Hermione later told her superiors at the Ministry. And she was sure the Ministry would not re-check the location if she reported that she had found nothing suspicious in the house – the Aurors did not have time for that.

In reality, number seven Elmsford Road was the residence of the Lestranges, and when Hermione, in her Auror uniform, knocked on their door, she was merrily invited inside for a cup of tea. Just like Grimmauld Place, it was a Dark wizards' house camouflaged in the middle of a shabby Muggle street, and the interior was pretty much the same, with peeling wallpaper and doxy-filled curtains. Apparently, it had fallen into neglect during its inhabitants' thirteen-year sojourn in Azkaban prison.

Bellatrix had been particularly overjoyed at seeing her fellow female Death Eater, and while chatting with the dark woman, Hermione got an idea.

She had been trying to find the time to visit Knockturn Alley for the last few days, but unfortunately, she always had to stay overtime at the Ministry and could never get away from work while the shops were still open. Unless she snuck off during her duty hours … and this was her chance. She explained the situation to Bellatrix, only leaving out what it was that she wanted to buy and for what purpose. The older woman, delighted by Hermione's interest in Dark artefacts, not only let her use the fireplace in her house, but even offered to lend her her own Death Eater robes.

Far not all Dark wizards were Death Eaters, but all of them approved of Voldemort's ideas, and Death Eaters were viewed as heroes by most Dark families. Therefore, if you wanted to be safe and respected in the midst of Dark wizards, the best way was to make them believe you were a Death Eater even if you weren't one – or show it openly if you were.

Hermione thanked her fellow Death Eater, promising that she would not be too long. She then donned the black robes and mask, which fit satisfactorily, and approached the crackling amber flames. She threw in a pinch of Floo power, called out "_Knockturn Alley!_" and walked into the warm flames.

She emerged from the stone fireplace in Borgin and Burkes with a soft _whoosh_. She walked towards the counter, but there was no one behind it. She pulled out her wand and shot off a ringing sound from it, then she waited, glancing around the large, poorly lit shop.

There were shelves that held skulls and other human bones on one wall; black masks similar to the one Hermione was wearing were exhibited on another, and pointed metallic utensils were suspended from the ceiling. Glass cases filled with various Dark objects and bloodstained books and locked black cabinets containing, she guessed, even more illegal items, were stationed in the corners.

A grumbling man emerged from the back room, looking annoyed. When he saw the masked Hermione, however, his expression changed drastically.

He smiled in what he thought was a friendly manner, and spoke in a fake, affable tone. "It is a pleasure to meet you, er … madam. I am Adrastus Borgin. How may I help you? You _must_ look at the new inventory we've received this week, the prices will interest you –" he said without pausing. At least he knew better than to ask her name.

"I am rather looking for something in particular, Mr Borgin," she said, interrupting the shopkeeper's monologue. "I need a subtle poison that cannot be countered, not even by a Dark potion. Preferably one that acts instantly."

The smile disappeared from the man's face. "I'm deeply sorry, madam, but we don't sell poisons," he said regretfully. "Our shop carries artefacts, madam, not potions …"

"Really?" said Hermione, a menacing glint appearing in her eyes. How dare this wizard lie to her? "I have heard from some of my … _associates_," she emphasised the word so as to leave no doubt as to what group she meant, "that you have a large variety of poisons in stock. Are you refusing to sell to me?"

The man stuttered for a moment, brushing greasy hair out of his eyes. "No offence, madam," he said uneasily, "but you could be an Auror in disguise for all I know, and with the latest legislation …"

Hermione found it hard not to laugh. An Auror in disguise? She _was_ one, all right. But if he wanted proof that she was not going to arrest him …

She slammed her left hand on the counter and pulled back her sleeve for a second, letting the man's eyes fall upon the skull imprinted in crimson on her skin. "I am no Auror," she hissed, "and the Dark Lord will be most displeased if you do not provide what I'm asking for, Mr Borgin."

That was a complete lie – Voldemort had no idea of what she was doing. But Borgin would surely not owl the Dark Lord to check if her words were truthful …

The shopkeeper's eyes widened in fear. "Forgive me, madam, I didn't know … I have exactly what you need, madam, just a moment," he said genially.

He came back with a small bottle of dark green glass. A piece of paper was stuck to it, and on it was written, in a slightly smudged script:

_  
Basilisk fang tincture + oil of monkshood  
in infusion of belladonna and hellebore  
Tasteless  
Instant effect _

"This is a combination of the deadliest substances in the wizarding world, madam," said Borgin in a hushed voice. "Everyone knows Basilisk venom is lethal, and the other three elements, when combined, will bring about an instant death. Three drops will suffice."

It was exactly what Hermione wanted, except that she had no guarantee that the substance in the bottle was in fact what was written on the label and not something else entirely. But she assumed Mr Borgin would be too afraid of Voldemort's wrath to sell a fake to someone he knew was a Death Eater, especially if he thought it would be used on Voldemort's orders.

"All right, I will believe you on this. But remember that the Dark Lord will be very displeased if it does not work correctly," she said warningly.

The shopkeeper nodded tensely. "Basilisk venom is infallible, madam. This will be one hundred twenty galleons and seven sickles."

"So much? For this tiny bottle? But there isn't even a tablespoonful in it …" Even if she had enough money to pay for the purchase, it didn't mean Hermione would not try to bargain a bit. Why waste her money? If this was indeed what Borgin was claiming, this little bottle was entirely worth it, and it would be useful not just this one time, but still …

"I'm sorry, madam, but you know how hard Basilisk fangs are to obtain," said Mr Borgin.

"I am aware of that, but one hundred twenty? Now that's too much, really," she declared, adjusting her hood. She doubted Borgin had brewed the poison himself, or even obtained the ingredients. If her guess was correct, someone had sold the prepared potion to him, and he was only reselling it – for a much higher price.

"All right, how about a round one hundred, then? But no less; it was really hard to acquire, madam."

"One hundred it is, then," said Hermione, opening her handbag. She counted the galleons, handed them over to Borgin, whose eyes had gained an unsettling glint at the sight of gold, then walked back towards the fireplace, the bottle of deadly substance safely hidden in a compartment of her bag. She Flooed back to the Lestranges' house, returned the robes to Bellatrix, thanked her for her hospitality, then Apparated back to work.

She hoped Coddy would hurry and visit her sometime soon as promised, so that she could put her plan in motion now that she had the supplies.


	17. Impedio Oblitteranda Est

— CHAPTER SEVENTEEN —

_**Impedio Oblitteranda Est**_

_Pop! _

Hermione was finishing buttoning her Auror uniform when she heard the sound of Apparition behind her. She whirled around, clutching the open front of her robes. Then she caught sight of the tiny visitor and let out a sound of surprise. It was Coddy.

"Coddy, you have to help me," she said without delay.

"Name it, Miss, name it and Coddy will do it," the house-elf said squeakily, a look of adoration on his face.

"Well, then …" Hermione crouched down and put her mouth near the house-elf's ear. Then she explained her goals in a whisper.

The elf's pointed ears drooped and he gasped, round eyes wide and shocked. Hermione, though, did not give the creature time to raise one of the objections that were no doubt bubbling in its head.

"Coddy, you know perfectly well that she almost killed me … you can punish yourself afterwards, Coddy, but just tell me …" _Help me._

"Oh, Miss is being cruel … Miss is being just like Master … but Coddy likes Miss and so Coddy will tell Miss," the elf was mumbled under his breath in a way reminiscent of Kreacher. Hermione could hear the hesitation in the last phrase, which she nevertheless took as a good sign.

Still, she reckoned that she ought to use more persuasion, just to be on the safe side, and took a wild gamble. She let a mischievous yet cruel expression settle on her face as she hissed, "Coddy, wouldn't you like it if I took the place of your mistress?"

Coddy stared at her, his eyes wide with delight. "Is that possible, Miss?"

_I think not … highly unlikely … not that I'll tell you that_. "It might be, if you tell me what I need to know … if you help me with this …"

The creature appeared to be considering Hermione's request for a minute, during which the brown-haired witch held her breath.

"Coddy knows exactly the way," the elf said finally, fixing his large, wide eyes on Hermione's. "Every month, Mistress Narcissa buys a little blue bottle. She does it every month, Miss, always on the same day and in the same place. Mistress Narcissa likes to talk when she is doing things in front of the mirror, Miss, oh yes Mistress does, and Mistress does not care if Coddy is there to hear it, Miss, because Coddy is only a house-elf! And so Coddy knows many secrets of Mistress Narcissa, Miss."

Now that was interesting. But, wait – "What do you mean, a blue bottle?" said a mystified Hermione.

"It's called a Beautifying Potion, Miss," said Coddy.

_WHAT?_

"Beautifying Potion?" gasped Hermione, "She uses a _Beautifying Potion_?" Then she burst into laughter, wild, uncontrollable laughter. "Oh – my – God … Beautifying Potion!" she muttered between gales of laughter.

"It is true, Miss," squeaked the elf and Hermione's mood sobered slightly, the mad laughter dying down. "Yes, Miss, and it is made from the flowers of the purple gentian –"

But Hermione interrupted again. "Purple?" she said sharply, "The gentian's colour is blue, yellow, white or red, but never purple! I remember it from those Muggle gardening books I read as a child …"

"Oh, that is what everyone is thinking, Miss!" said Coddy. "But that is not true, Miss. The purple gentian is a very rare flower, Miss, rare and expensive, and it has some amazing effects, Miss! It grows on the highest mountains of the Himalayas, Miss, and the witches harvest it there to make the potion, Miss, and Mistress Narcissa buys the potion from a witch friend in Knockturn Alley. That is what Coddy knows, Miss."

_But how is this supposed to help me kill her?_

Then it dawned on her. _How fitting_, she thought, _and how ironic that she would fall to her own methods_. It even suited her name … Narcissa, the one whose vanity would eventually cause her death …

"But can you tell me _how_, Coddy …?"

"Coddy cannot tell Miss what to do, but Miss can ask questions and Coddy can answer," the elf said squeakily.

Hermione stood there for a minute, her mind working frantically, until an idea came to her. "Is the bottle sealed?" she asked. Coddy nodded. "Magically?" The elf nodded again.

Her eyebrows knitted together in thought, then she said, "Can it be re-sealed with a spell, if it is opened?"

The house-elf clapped its hands. "Yes it can, Miss."

"Oh," she said after a moment, "I get it, Coddy. I get it."

The house-elf promptly banged his head against the nearest wall. Hermione ignored the ensuing yelp. "Does your master know that she … well … _enhances_ her appearance?" she enquired.

"Oh, no, Miss, Master doesn't know, Master would be very angry with Mistress, Master doesn't like it when Mistress spends his money on such things …"

"When does she buy it? And where? Do you have the address?"

The house-elf looked extremely guilty. However, Hermione hadn't been nearly sorted into Slytherin for nothing.

-

Three weeks later found her stirring the contents of a cauldron she had concealed in a wall of her house. The secret cupboard, which she had made herself, was password-protected, and she had originally created it to hide incriminating material such as her Death Eater clothes.

In the previous three weeks, however, the hiding place had found itself an additional use. It was here that Hermione kept the cauldron in which she was brewing Polyjuice potion, a potion that took 21 days to make. Today, she found herself overcome with impatience as she stirred the liquid a final time and put out the fire under the cauldron. It was ready at last …

Once the brew had cooled, she poured it into a flask, then bottled the rest and hid it away in the secret cupboard. She had a feeling that it might prove useful in the future; one never knew …

The only thing missing was the last ingredient, the hair. Hermione could not stop the bad memories that came at this point, namely the failure that had been her first experience with this potion. She had used Polyjuice on several of her Auror missions, but she could never quite forget how painful it had been to be turned into a half-cat.

-

Hermione was not wearing Death Eater attire this time. Nevertheless, her face was concealed behind a hood, a dark blue cloak hiding her identity as she walked the most disreputable street in wizarding Britain. From watching her cloaked form move stealthily past Borgin and Burkes, past the shops and further into the dark, forbidding alley, an observer could accurately guess at her career of secret agent. But in reality, her presence here today had nothing to do with her profession. This time, her motive was personal ambition.

The shops became rarer and the passage dingier. Here, the street was entirely deserted with old, abandoned-looking (on the outside, at least) houses. There were no trees, no lawns, not even the chirping of a bird could be heard in the eerie silence. Only the occasional cat could be seen creeping in the skeletons of a bush between two houses, yellow eyes glowing and tail bristled.

Hermione kept glancing furtively at the houses she walked past, then at a small piece of parchment in her hand. She stopped by a house painted in fading purple and looking as though most of the colour had been washed off by the rain.

She approached the rather unremarkable door which had violet paint peeling off it. An inscription stated _Madam Grelt_ in letters almost completely erased with age. She recognised the name from Coddy's indications. Madam Grelt was Narcissa Malfoy's associate and a dealer in illegal potions, who received batches of the Beautification Potion, among other rare, Ministry-classified brews, in contraband directly from Tibet.

Hermione knocked.

The door creaked open, revealing an old witch with a sallow, wrinkled face and a long plait of grey hair. She had rotten, yellow teeth; it was clear that this woman did not use the potions she sold for herself.

At the sight of the hooded Hermione, she stuck out her bony hands threateningly. Her nails were sharp and pointed, and there was a visible layer of grime under them. "Who the devil are you?" she rasped.

Hermione had her wand at the ready. "_Imperio!_" she said.

The old woman did not resist when Hermione instructed her to walk into the back room and followed her inside. Then Hermione interrogated her for a quarter of an hour, receiving unhesitating, if unwilling, answers. "_Stupefy!_" she said once she had all the information she needed to do a plausible impersonation of the witch.

Hermione lifted the dark glass bottle. It had no label. She set it on the table and cut carefully through the seal around the stopper, so that a simple "_Reparo_" would suffice to make it look as though it had never been broken. Then she pulled out the vial of poison she had procured from the shop.

Borgin had said three drops would be enough, but she had to make sure it _was_ enough to kill, and the quicker it worked, the better, she reasoned as she poured a whole teaspoonful of the transparent, odourless liquid inside. She then resealed it with magic, checking that there was no outward sign that the bottle had ever been opened, before giving it a good shake.

She knew the woman would surely notice the slightest difference in taste or consistence and was extremely grateful that the poison was truly undetectable.

Then she took out another flask from her robes, this one containing the Polyjuice potion. She plucked a hair from the unconscious Madam Grelt's head and dropped it into the brew. It made a hissing sound and turned a murky, nauseating shade of yellow. Quickly and without allowing herself to linger on the taste, she gulped down the potion straight from the flask.

She waited until the painful transformation was complete and she looked exactly like the old woman on the floor, then she undressed speedily and donned the unconscious woman's robes and cloak. She was careful not to look down at her body, to avoid the urge to puke.

Dragging the unconscious witch toward a cupboard, she stuffed her inside and cast locking and hushing charms on the door. It wouldn't do for her to wake up while the 'visitor' was here.

All she had to do now was to wait for the detestable blonde woman to arrive for_ their_ customary rendezvous.

Having learnt everything she needed about what to say and how to behave once the 'customer' arrived, Hermione prepared herself for the encounter. It took a lot of patience to force her face into a friendly expression and to stop herself from murdering the blonde witch on sight, but she reminded herself that she had to think about the consequences instead of acting in a fit of emotion, Harry Potter style. She had to be discreet and as hard as it was, she could cheer herself up with the thought that if she pulled this off correctly, it would be the last time she ever saw the despicable woman. _And she'll never get the chance to kill me again._

Once it was done, she would modify the old witch's memory to make her think she had sold the potion to her friend as normal and that Hermione had never been there.

She forced her face into a jovial smile just as there was a knock on the door. "A pleasure to see you, Madam Malfoy," she said and had to fight a start at how scratchy and unlike her own voice she sounded. "We have your potion right here, freshly imported, but I am afraid the price has risen since your last stopover …"

-

Draco Malfoy threw open the door to his father's study without knocking and rushed inside.

Lucius shut his Dark Arts book and turned to his son in annoyance. "Have I never taught you proper conduct, Draco? I would have thought you'd know by now that such behaviour is unbefitting of a Malfoy, let alone my only heir …"

But unlike usually, Draco did not flinch or look ashamed at the reprimand. Actually, his son did not even appear to hear him. His face was unusually pale and there was an expression of distress in his eyes.

The initial surge of irritation he had felt at his son's blatant lack of manners disappeared. "Is anything the matter, Draco?" he asked.

"Father, it's …" Draco seemed to be barely capable of speech; he looked on the verge of tears. "It's mother," he said finally, pulling himself together. "I just found her. She's – she's – she's _dead_!"

Lucius looked slightly surprised for a second. "Indeed?" he said impassively. Aside from that momentary flash of surprise in his eyes, he showed no emotion at the news. His face was stony and mask-like, his eyes cold and indifferent.

Draco, though, displayed the opposite of his father's composed demeanour. He was trembling, his shoulders shaking with repressed sobs, and there were blotches of red on his cheeks; his eyes were swollen from crying.

"How did she die?" Lucius inquired finally.

His son looked shocked at the nonchalant query. "But how can you be so – so cold about it? It looks almost like – like you don't even care!" shouted Draco, his eyes shining with tears.

"Calm yourself, Draco," Lucius said sharply. "I will not be spoken to in such a tone. Now, about Narcissa – your mother was undeserving of the Malfoy name. She was a disgrace," he said without a hint of emotion in his grey eyes, and to his son's astonishment, a cold smile slowly appeared on his face. "A disgrace," he repeated softly.

"How can you say that, Father?" Draco said in disbelief. "How can you –"

"I said, _calm yourself!_ You will not raise your voice at me, Draco, I will not tolerate it," said Lucius. "It matters little that you are my son and heir … I will not stand for disrespect – not anymore." That smile of irony quirked his lips again, as though he had just made a joke known only to himself. But Draco was too distraught to ponder the subtleties of his father's behaviour right now.

Draco's jaw had dropped at the cutting reprimand – or was it a threat? His father had never spoken to him that way before … so cruel and heartless … nor had he ever talked about his mother like that.

"I believe I asked you how she died," drawled Lucius.

"I have no idea. I found her in her room, in her usual armchair … her eyes were open and blank … lifeless … it was so _awful_, I thought I was going to be ill when I looked into them …"

"End the emotive inanity, Draco," his father cut in. "I simply want to know the cause of her death."

"I don't know," answered Draco. "She has no wounds, nothing like that. Maybe a poison … there was a bottle of wine on her desk, I think it was open …"

Lucius looked troubled at that. "Indeed … but how?" he murmured to himself. "_How?_"

"Maybe you should take a look, Father," his son suggested hesitantly.

-

With one glance at the corpse slumped in the velvet-cushioned chair, Lucius recognised the symptoms. He knew this poison; he had used it more than once to dispose of meddlesome Ministry officials during the Dark Lord's first rise. He had later sold the remaining batch to get rid of potential evidence, should the manor ever be searched by the Ministry.

He knew who had supplied the assassin with the substance, because he was the one who had sold it to Borgin. Now he only had to get the double-dealing merchant to tell him who had bought the bottle.

He conjured a random cloak from the wardrobe in his room and Apparated straight into Borgin and Burke's shop.

Borgin was uncooperative, and in the end he had to threaten the lying shopkeeper with a particularly painful death to make him talk. Trembling with fear, the man finally blurted out, "She told me it was for the Dark Lord! Threatened me, she did, even showed the Dark Mark …"

"_She?_" said Lucius sharply.

A stuttering Borgin confirmed that it was a woman, he was sure, but she was masked and refused to tell him her name, so no, he had no idea who she was.

Lucius was perplexed. A woman? A woman who had the Dark Mark? But why would Bellatrix kill her little sister? And he couldn't see how Narcissa could have possibly displeased the Dark Lord or why the latter would want her dead.

Unless it _wasn't _Bellatrix …

Which other woman had the Dark Mark on her arm? There was only one other and she was indeed someone who had good reason to want Narcissa dead. But surely Hermione could not have concocted such a plan and carried it out without telling him! It was so _unlike_ her …

But who else could it be? All the facts were pointing to her in an undeniable accusation.

It was unlike the Hermione he knew. But then again, perhaps he did not know her as well as he had thought.

He had never expected this of her. He had underestimated her, underestimated her ambition. For all the time she spent listening to him confessing his intimate, most fanciful aspirations, she never spoke of hers, he realised. It was as though she had none, but everything he had heard about her told him that she was, and had always been, an ambitious and determined woman who had clearly defined goals. But why didn't she ever voice those to him?

Because they were things she thought he would not approve of, perhaps?

Seeing as he could not get any more information out of Borgin because the man simply did not _know_ anything, Lucius Apparated back to his manor without a single word.

He had to give it to her: Hermione was a very effective Death Eater, so effective that it was slightly alarming. And she was extraordinarily good at covering her tracks. This was the girl, he reminded himself, who had kept her Dark nature hidden from even her closest friends and family all her life.

She was really good at keeping secrets. But he did not appreciate his confidante keeping such secrets from him.

He concentrated on making her aware of his discontent through the connection he had forged between them.

-

Hermione was jerked out of her fitful sleep by a searing pain that – she realised it a moment later – had its focal point in her right forearm. "_Lumos_," she said shortly.

She held her wand up to her skin and saw that the mark – not the Dark Mark, no, the _other_ one – was an inky black colour. A jolt of pain went through her arm again, this time accompanied by a foreign sense of anger and the instant, inexplicable knowledge that _he_ was displeased.

This mark probably acted like Harry's scar, then, Hermione concluded. But by Merlin, it never burned so painfully when Voldemort called her …

Not bothering to replace her nightdress with more decent clothing, she only grabbed the nearest cloak (she didn't want to freeze to death if she had to step outside in this mere nightdress), fastened it around her shoulders, and pressed her palm to the throbbing mark. Instantly, she disappeared from her bedroom with a _crack_.

Just like the last time she had attempted to Apparate to the Malfoy mansion, Hermione was once again repelled by the protections on the grounds. Shivering from the icy wind in her woollen cloak, she made her way past the snow-covered lawn and towards the residence looming in the distance. Today, its magnificence seemed menacing to Hermione.

She pulled open the doors which, surprisingly, weren't locked. Stepping into the warm entrance hall, she stopped. Lucius was in his study, up the staircase, though she had no idea how she knew. She felt a pull in that direction and followed the instinct. It guided her to a door that was ajar.

She pushed it open with a trembling hand.

He did not speak. Hermione hesitated in the doorway, then approached tentatively.

"You called me?" she said steadily, but as with as much meekness as she could.

Silence.

She saw the furious look in his eyes and her breath caught in her throat. She felt her stomach churn horribly. She hadn't thought he would take it so badly …

Her teeth started to chatter in fear as she stared into the grey eyes that were filled with a terrifying rage. It took a conscious effort to fight the urge to run for her life. But where could she run to? In this house, he would find her in an instant. And not just in this house …

She could never hide from him. No, she had to stay here and accept whatever he decided to do with her in his wrath.

"An assassin now, aren't you? What happened to remaining a spy, Hermione?" he said with a scary calm that his eyes belied. "And what about asking your _master_ before going through with such a plan?"

Whether he meant the Dark Lord or … or _himself_ was left to her imagination as she struggled desperately to speak in defence of her actions.

"That – that's exactly why I didn't tell you," she said quickly. "I knew you would feel obligated to stop me … your _honour_ wouldn't have allowed it, you said it yourself. That's why I didn't ask … she almost killed me! I had to do something … would you prefer if I had waited until she tried again and – who knows – succeeded?"

"So you decided to take initiative without consulting me; you hid your plans from me for weeks… you lied to me. You _deceived_ me, Hermione." The words were spoken with finality, condemning her.

That gut-wrenching sensation of dread returned, increasing twofold. Trembling, she tried to guess what he was going to do to her. Torture? Or was he going to kill her?

Or would he tell her that it was over and he didn't want to see her again? That would _kill_ her!

He stood from his seat, his lips quirked in a thin smile. His eyes were flashing with fury, and Hermione recoiled as he moved closer. She suddenly remembered seeing the same look on his face when he had talked of his _late_ wife, and found herself wondering what he had done to the unfortunate woman that day. Wait – _unfortunate_? How queer that the murderess would pity her victim!

He grabbed her shoulders and physically threw her against the wall. It was a wonder that she remained standing.

"Do you fear me, Hermione?" he hissed.

Her breathing quickened. "I always have."

"Good," he said. "You should. You really should. Only fools do not."

She looked at him, and he looked back, coldly, with no sympathy.

Hermione felt desperation build in her chest. How stupid would it be for him to kill her in a fit of anger, after he had personally saved her from death weeks earlier? And after she had done the most horrible things just to make him happy…

She remembered the conversation they had had at St Mungo's after he had saved her from a painful death by poisoning. He had promised that she would be safe … but he probably didn't put much importance in his promises; Dark wizards never did. But he had looked at her with such protectiveness when he had said it … there had been cruelty in his smile, too, but she was sure it had been meant for those who harmed her, not for her …

Had he forgotten his promise already? Maybe he considered what she had done an act of betrayal, and his anger must have clouded his mind like it often did … She had to do something to calm him, she realised with desperation.

She thought of a better day, she thought of the tender words he had whispered to her at the hospital, and gathered her courage. Even Harry had said that she was really a Gryffindor, even after she had joined Voldemort … _joined Voldemort_ … if she could face Voldemort and control her fear, she could do this too - even when he was looking at her like that.

_You don't want to do it, Lucius … whatever you're thinking of doing to me_, she thought as she forced herself to stick out her hand and put it on the back of his neck. She then stood on tiptoe and kissed him.

He pushed her harder against the wall and gripped her jaw tightly as he kissed back. The kiss turned harsh and bruising, and she winced when he pulled away. The anger was still there, she saw with trepidation.

She wasn't prepared for when he Apparated with a crack, taking her with him through Side-Along Apparition, and she found herself in another, darker room – more like a cell, windowless, empty with stone walls and floor. By the cold, humid air, she knew that they were somewhere in the dungeons.

He wrapped a hand around her throat, pressing threateningly. "I warned you. I warned you not to betray me, ever, yet you still saw fit to deceive me. Give me one reason why I should not kill you," he said chillingly.

She wanted to tell him Voldemort wouldn't be pleased to lose his spy, but she feared that the mention of the Dark Lord would anger him even more. "I thought you cared," she said instead.

He gave no reaction.

Hermione stared at his face, wishing for a hint of what he was thinking, desperate for a clue to what was coming. But it was in vain. Her lover's cold eyes gave nothing away except for a controlled fury.

"Please," she said quietly. "Direct your anger at those who deserve it."

The hand tightened around her throat. "And you think you do not?"

"I'm sorry," she said. "I'm so sorry … for hiding this from you … I shouldn't have betrayed your trust …"

She had not been so scared since the night when, frozen in fear, she had … acknowledged his superiority … for the first time. She had just been reminded of who he was, and she was terrified.

She had read her death in these blazing, pitiless grey eyes.

He released her neck; instead, he seized her shoulders roughly and threw her on the ground.

-

She sat on the floor, her head bowed, her hair hanging in bushy curtains on the sides of her face. It was hard to believe that this woman had committed murder with such calculated precision.

"Stand up, my _dear_," he spat.

She obeyed, trembling with fear. He raised his wand and pointed it at her chest.

She looked imploringly into his eyes. It always excited him when she did that …

"My Lord, please …"

Her soft-spoken words hung in the silence.

"Please, I'm begging you … don't do something you'll regret …"

He touched her neck again, more gently than before, almost a caress, but it did not reassure her. She was shivering in his grasp, he noticed, and there were tears in her eyes.

The connection formed between them through his magical brand on her enabled him to sense her emotions. Her mind was torn between two overwhelming ones: fear and devotion. He knew at that moment that she would do anything for him, that even if he carried her to the highest floor of the manor and, holding her up to the window, told her to jump, she would do it. She would cry and plead, of course, but in the end she would do it. _That_ was the extent of her loyalty to him.

It reassured him, because no matter how cunning and clever and, on necessity, _ruthless_ she was, she placed his wishes above everything else. Now he knew that even though she wasn't above lying to him, she would not deceive him when it really mattered, or trick him, for selfish goals, into something she knew he did not want. She would never act the way Narcissa had.

This reassured him, but it also caused his lips to twist in a cruel smirk that caused her fear to increase.

He wasn't displeased with her for doing away with his wife. In fact, he was glad the nuisance that was the former Lady Malfoy was dead. What had caused his anger to flare was that Hermione had kept a plan of this magnitude from him for so long and he had never suspected it, even when he could actually monitor her feelings through the link of Dark magic that marked her as his servant and him as her Lord.

Legilimency wasn't the only reason the Dark Lord always knew when a Death Eater was not being truthful to him. And the mark _he_ had placed on Hermione's arm worked exactly the same way.

But he had to concede that if he had known what she had been plotting, he would have prevented her from carrying it out and Narcissa would still be alive. Hermione really was a clever witch. It seemed she had thought of everything and he had to admire her for that.

He sheathed his wand. He felt that he had punished her enough. She had felt deathly fear, and she would remember it the next time she thought of keeping secrets from him. With this in mind, he brought his mouth to hers in an intense kiss, keeping his hand curled loosely around her neck.

"I shall forgive you this time," he said at last, releasing her, and he saw a ray of hope cut through the fright in her tearful brown eyes. "How can I reproach you acting in a way _I_ would have?"

He kissed her throat tenderly, his fingers sifting through the wisps of brown hair at the nape of her neck. "You alone, Hermione … you alone can appease my temper this way. But never deceive me again, for I do not know what I might do next time … I always did have trouble controlling my anger."

"I won't," she said quickly, and she meant these words. She had rarely been so terrified in her life. To think how close she had come to death …

She knew she was not facing a simple Death Eater. As a qualified Auror, she could defend herself against Death Eaters.

But this was something else. This man was more than a mere Death Eater.

This was the heir of a nineteenth-century Dark Lord …

There was no doubt left in her mind. There hadn't been since his display of Dark power when, in a moment of madness, she had allowed him to mark her with fire. No doubt at all …

That she was facing the next Dark Lord.

-

January passed in a flash. February followed quickly and soon enough it was March; the snow was melting and the temperature was warming up, only hindered by the icily cold winds sweeping the grounds around the Malfoy mansion. Spring flowers such as snowdrops and primula started to peek through the cold soil around Hermione's house, soon followed by yellow daffodils.

Hermione's life had long since returned to the routine it had been prior to the poisoning incidents, except that she now accompanied her lover on his Muggle-baiting escapades. The same went for most of their attacks on wizarding families who opposed Voldemort. But sometimes he insisted on going alone to do the Dark Lord's bidding ("No, never alone," he reassured her, "there are always others with me; the Lestrange brothers or Crabbe and Goyle are bodyguard enough.") when he thought the risk of her getting identified or captured was too high.

Even so, she had not attended a single Death Eater meeting since the one where she had been initiated. She had felt the mark on her left arm burn several times, but it was always during her 'duty hours' either for the Ministry or the Order of the Phoenix and she had not answered the call so as not to rouse suspicion, just like Voldemort had instructed her.

She owled the Dark Lord frequently, however, informing him of everything that could be relevant to his plans. Sometimes, she reported the less urgent news to Lucius instead, who then relayed everything to Voldemort at the next Death Eater meeting.

Her written reports were never answered, but she knew the Dark Lord received each of them, because raids anticipated by the Aurors were always cancelled or postponed. Always. This caused some problems at the Ministry, though, and soon the officials began having doubts.

Rumours started spreading like wildfire through the Ministry of Magic. There were whispers of a spy among the Aurors, as unprecedented as that would be; either that or one of them was being controlled by the Imperius Curse. How else could the Death Eaters know where and when their raids were going to be?

The first time Hermione had heard that particular rumour, she thought her heart had stopped for a second. She had assumed the worst: that she had been discovered. But then she had realised they had no idea who the spy was, because she would have been already in Azkaban if they knew. No, they had no clue to the person's identity. This set her mind at rest.

The fear with which they pronounced 'spy' almost made her giggle every time. She found it funny that she elicited such fear in her fellow Aurors. A Death Eater with the knowledge and experience of an Auror … a Death Eater who knew all the Aurors' plans and secrets, who had undergone the same training as they and who sat among them as they discussed strategy … she could understand why the notion scared them.

After a week of hushed conversations and distrustful glances between the Aurors, someone divulged the situation to the head of their department, demanding that something be done. The rumours, again, had it that it had been Zacharias Smith, who was fed up with the state of affairs and flew off the handle, so to say. Percy had in turn gone to Fudge for guidance, and following a lengthy discussion, Harry Potter had been called to the Minister's office in the hopes that the legendary green-eyed Auror would have an idea of how to deal with everything.

From what Hermione later learnt from Harry, a course of action was decided between the three of them. Fudge's suggestion had been that a dozen Aurors, those he found the most trustworthy, be put in charge of keeping close watch on their colleagues to eventually find out the spy's identity. But Harry had raised the objection that _anyone_ could be the spy, no matter how trustworthy they acted.

"_Almost _anyone," Percy Weasley had interjected with a thoughtful glance at Harry. "There is one Auror we can trust completely, because under no circumstances could he be working for You-Know-Who. There's absolutely no chance that he's a spy."

This had caused a jovial smile to break across Fudge's face. "Excellent idea, Weasley! We will put him in charge of it, then, and the hunt for the spy won't last two days – we'll know who it is by tomorrow!"

"Who are you talking about?" Harry had asked sceptically.

They had, of course, been talking about him. The Boy Who Lived, whose parents had been killed by Voldemort and who had been fighting the Dark wizard since the age of eleven. There was no risk of him being a spy for Voldemort. But Harry had demanded that Ron and Hermione be allowed to assist him, as there was no way he could keep everyone in the Auror Headquarters under surveillance on his own, and that if Fudge trusted him completely, then he had no reason not to have the same trust in his friends. Because Harry trusted his best friends with his life.

Percy had objected to that, reiterating Harry's earlier words back at him. While Harry would never work for He Who Must Not Be Named for obvious reasons, anyone else could be secretly passing information to the enemy, either of their free will or not, and not even his brother, Ron, was to be overlooked in this.

Harry had leapt to the defence of his friend instantly. "I trust Ron with my life – he has never betrayed me! He has always been with me, and in everything we've been through, we were together. I wouldn't have survived half of the things I've been through if he wasn't there! You can you even think your brother might be a Death Eater? And Hermione! She's a Muggle-born, for heaven's sake! Why on earth would _she_ follow Voldemort? I'm sorry, Percy, but this is too much. There's not a bloody _chance_ either of them is the spy."

The Minister had then suggested a compromise. It would be Harry _and_ Hermione who would be trusted with the investigation, for the obvious reasons that they both were completely above suspicion, Harry for his past and identity as the Boy Who Lived and Hermione as the only Muggle-born Auror. Ron, while from a Light-sided family and close to Harry, was not trustworthy enough, and Fudge had refused to go back over that decision.

Hermione had at that time been sitting in her cubicle at the Auror Headquarters poring over an arcane book which another Auror had confiscated on a recent raid and which was written in a code that the Ministry wanted cracked, as they suspected it contained vital information about the spells Voldemort had used on his quest for immortality.

A mauve paper aeroplane had landed on her desk and she had unravelled the memo to reveal a short message telling her that she was expected in the Minister's office. Her forehead had creased in apprehension. Had she messed up somewhere? Had Fudge finally decided to sack her? Or … had they found out she was a spy?

That last concept was particularly frightening. She knew she was only useful to Voldemort because of her position at the Ministry, and if she lost their trust …

Hermione had been both puzzled and worried when she had seen the strange company in Fudge's office. What could Harry and Percy be discussing with the Minister _together_? From what she knew, these three had never been the closest of friends.

Fudge, who had been looking happy about something, had invited her to join the group. Harry and Percy had then taken turns explaining the plan to her. She had masked her emotions well, but she had been immensely relieved. Not only she was above suspicion, but she would be trusted with a task of such secrecy and importance …

This meant that Fudge had finally got over his dislike of her Muggle origins and was favouring her above the other Aurors. It also meant that with this responsibility, she would probably stay at the Ministry most of the time, which implied that she would be given less raids.

She and Harry were given the function of 'Inquisitors' and assigned powers to search the desks and drawers of other Aurors without informing them first, among other things. They were also forbidden to speak about their new role; no one else was to know about the operation. The other Aurors were not to be aware that their every move was being watched.

It was ironic, really, that it was_ she_ who was given the task of catching the spy. She, the only person who knew the secret agent's identity – of course she knew it, because it was herself.

And it was reassuring to be completely above suspicion. _For the moment_, she reminded herself, because she wasn't naïve enough to think her treachery would remain unnoticed indefinitely.

The Minister's latest scheme would eventually backfire on her, because if the search came out ineffective after a few weeks and no spy was discovered while the Aurors' plans continued to be foiled up, they were bound to start suspecting her. Unless someone else was caught …

She realised she would have to set someone up with false evidence to preserve her position. Currently, she had no idea how she was going to do that, though.

Putting the problem out of her mind for the time being, Hermione sat down and took the time to write a report to Lord Voldemort, who she was sure would want to hear of the new developments. In fact, he would be furious if he did not hear of this straight away.

Being a spy was not as exciting as she had once thought. In reality, it was wearisome, dangerous and not rewarding in the least. She constantly had to worry about being discovered, which would mark the end of her career and possibly her life, not to mention how draining it was to play the role of something she no longer was whenever she was in public and, indeed, even when she wasn't.

Sighing, she sealed the message and put it in her pocket to send it off with her owl as soon as she would get home. There was no backing out of the Dark Lord's service.

-

Life was a routine, proper and predictable … until the day everything changed.

From the moment Hermione stepped past the oak doors into the Auror Headquarters that morning, she noticed the change in atmosphere. Her colleagues were less quiet than usually. Some were gathered in groups of three or four in a single cubicle, laughing and whispering excitedly. The gloom that had fallen like a dark cloud over them during the past weeks was suddenly gone, and those who greeted her as she passed them on the way to her own cubicle had an air of triumph about them.

This behaviour caused Hermione to feel uneasy. What could the entire Auror Office be so happy about? Whatever the cause of this good mood, she was sure she would not find it to be good news, being on the other side and all. Actually, if the Aurors were in such high spirits, she had reason to be worried.

She could not ignore the gathering in the cubicle next to hers, where Harry and Ron were surrounded by a cluster of red-robed fellows, some of whom had never spoken to them before yet now appeared to be excitedly questioning the duo about –

"The ambush last night … is it true, Potter?" She could only hear fragments of voices.

"– that bastard –" This was Harry's voice.

"How did you manage …?"

_What's going on? _she wondered, agitated.

"They said in the _Daily Prophet_ …"

"… promoted to Head Auror?"

"– to Azkaban! Hard to believe we've finally done it …" This voice she recognised as Ron's.

"… a devastating blow to You-Know-Who's forces," someone else said triumphantly.

Hermione repressed a pang of alarm. This didn't sound good, not at all …

"Which one of you did it?"

Ron answered something indistinct, then another voice spoke loudly: "Hey, I was there too! They couldn't have done it without my help. Without that quick _Impedimenta_ of mine, you would have been in a bit of trouble, Potter, admit it …"

That last, boastful comment belonged to Zacharias Smith. Hermione had gathered by now that Harry and Ron had conducted some sort of raid the previous night, accompanied by Smith, and by the sound of it, had been incredibly successful.

"What happened, Harry?" she called, sticking her head over the top of the wall separating her cubicle from Harry's, which was swarming with a half-dozen people at the moment. But it wasn't the grinning Harry Potter who answered.

"Didn't read the _Daily Prophet_, did you?" Zacharias Smith smirked over the cubicle wall.

"Potter and company made the front page," Dawlish, one of Minister Fudge's personal guard, added enviously.

Hermione moved back into her tiny workspace. Settling behind her desk, she reached for the morning's copy of the newspaper that lay there inoffensively, folded up in two. For some reason, her hands shook as she unfolded it.

She stared at the headline for a second, blinked, and choked on her tea.

The _Daily Prophet_ slipped from Hermione's grasp. _I will destroy you, Harry Potter_, she thought, _if it is the last thing I do_.


	18. Divided Loyalties

_Disclaimer__: The Harry Potter universe and its components, including characters, places and spells, belong to their creator, the talented J. K. Rowling. No copyright or trademark infringement is meant with this work._

**Author's note**: I would like to thank everyone who reviewed this story. When I read another author's work and think, 'Gosh, I could never write _that_ well', I come here to reread your reviews to cheer myself up. I'd also like to thank everyone who gave me constructive criticism – it helped make the story better. And I owe a tremendous thank-you to **Nessie** and **ArieSemir**,who did a fantastic job at beta reading this chapter.

* * *

— CHAPTER EIGHTEEN —

_**Divided Loyalties**_

Hermione felt like she had been punched in the chest. She couldn't breathe, couldn't think; even her vision was blurry. It was as though the cubicle's walls were closing in on her.

She slumped forward on her desk and hid her face in her hands, her bushy hair spilling onto the desk in front of her. She squeezed her eyes shut.

It didn't help. She could still see the headline as if it had been burnt into her retinas like the brand on her forearm. The bold, black letters kept flashing before her.

The _Daily Prophet_ lay on the floor near her chair. The black and white picture of Harry Potter grinned and waved up at her from the front page. Hermione wanted to step on it with her shoe.

_I need to stay calm_, she ordered herself sternly. Her eyelids stung with hot tears. She took a deep breath, then another, performing the relaxation exercise she had been taught at the Auror Academy.

She looked around her narrow workspace. While still uncomfortably cramped, her cubicle looked bigger than her friends' because it was neat. Its walls were covered in bookcases, not posters or pictures, and her desk had been cleaned of yesterday's paperwork.

She could hear Harry and Ron's voices in the next cubicle. They sounded excited …

She breathed deeply, then picked up the paper to read the rest of the article.

_YOU-KNOW-WHO'S RIGHT-HAND MAN ARRESTED  
POTTER TO BE HEAD OF AUROR OFFICE_

_At dawn this morning, some of the Ministry of Magic's best fighters staged an ambush against a small group of followers of He Who Must Not Be Named, successfully recapturing three notorious Death Eaters, all of whom escaped from Azkaban prison, where they were to serve life sentences, eight years ago. The captured include Lucius Malfoy, who is rumoured to be You-Know-Who's right-hand man, along with infamous followers Rodolphus Lestrange and Nicholas Nott. Auror Harry Potter, who was in charge of the division, is to be advanced to the position of Head Auror, says Minister for Magic Cornelius Fudge …_

Hermione stopped reading. She put the newspaper back on her desk, face down, hiding the magical picture of Harry. Forcing her face into a neutral expression, she stood up and walked out of her cubicle and into the one directly on the left.

Harry and Ron were the only ones there. The others who had come to congratulate must have already left. Harry's face lit up with a grin when he caught sight of her standing in front of his cubicle. He waved her in from behind his desk.

Ron pretended not to see her. It had been months since their row over who had sent her that nightdress, but he had shown no inclination to let go of his grudge.

"Hermione, is something the matter? Do you have a lead on who –" Harry glanced at Ron, then gave her an anxious look, "I mean the mission Fudge gave us?"

She moved further into Harry's cubicle. "Unfortunately, I haven't got a clue about who it might be. Whoever it is, they are being really careful. What were you talking about? I heard something about a _party_," she said in disbelief. A party at a time like this …!

Ron smiled an ugly, lopsided grin that she couldn't believe she had found attractive in her sixth year at Hogwarts. "Yeah, we were thinking about having a party after work … nothing special, just some Butterbeer and stuff, you know, to take everyone's mind off things. And I talked to Smith; he said it'd be nice to celebrate our success … it's so rare that we get one up on the Death Eaters these days, and we've been trying to catch those three for _years_ …"

Hermione barely registered that Ron was _talking_ to her. Then he stopped talking and they saw a paper aeroplane zooming towards them. It was an inter-departmental memo … but this one had _URGENT_ stamped beside the words _Ministry of Magic_ across its wings.

"That's for you, mate – your name's on it," said Ron.

Harry reached out and caught it like a Snitch as it neared his desk. He read aloud:

"_To Head Auror Harry Potter from the Deputy Watchwizard at the fortress of _–" He stopped, his eyes moving across the pale violet paper. "Wait! Wait – what's this? By Merlin, that's impossible … they're on Voldemort's side!"

"What is it?" said Hermione urgently.

"The Dementors have returned to Azkaban," said Harry in an undertone.

"The Deme— _what_?" sputtered Hermione, feeling the blood drain out of her face.

"Listen to this: _Twenty Dementors appeared at the fortress this morning to guard the cells of select Death Eaters … cooperative, no attempt to attack the guards, the creatures appear disposed to take orders from the Ministry of Magic … possible rebellion from You-Know-Who's control _…"

Hermione's eyes darted around the cubicle. The only thought that stood out in her frantic mind was '_the Dark Lord must hear about this'_. She could send him an owl as usual, but it would take hours to arrive. This was urgent. If a group of Dementors had somehow revolted against him and was now helping the Ministry, Voldemort had to know it as soon as possible. She was his highest-ranking spy within the Ministry and he would be _furious_ with her if she didn't inform him of something like this the moment it happened.

Or maybe Voldemort already knew … but she would send him an owl anyway.

She kept a smile on her face, but her eyes were flashing. "That's wonderful, Harry," she lied, looking him straight in the eyes.

"I wonder what made them return," he said thoughtfully. "Either these Dementors have broken out of Voldemort's control or …"

"Or maybe they were ordered back to Azkaban by Voldemort himself," Ron suggested.

Harry and Hermione looked at him.

"That doesn't make sense," said Harry. "Why would he send them to guard his own Death Eaters?"

"Maybe … maybe the Dementors don't affect them!" said Ron, looking quite proud of himself.

"Don't be ridiculous, Ron. Of course they do affect them!" Hermione retorted. "But I doubt V – Voldemort would set them on his own followers. I really doubt it …" She turned away from Ron and tried to put it out of her head that he was there.

She walked up to Harry's desk, trying not to glare at him. "So, you're the Head Auror now, Harry?"

"Yeah. Shacklebolt was supposed to return from Tibet months ago, but there's still no sign of him, and Fudge's given up. He thinks it's time to move on and appoint someone else to fill the position. He reckons it's been too long to hope he just got lost in the mountains …"

"No, he probably met some Dark wizards on the way," said Ron.

Harry nodded. "That's what Fudge believes."

"All right." Hermione bit her lip. "Look, Harry, I'm not feeling well. I'm taking the day off."

He raised his head quickly and stared at her with shocked green eyes. "Why?"

She wanted to say, '_to stage an Azkaban breakout_'. "I do need rest like everyone else," she said instead.

Harry looked at her as though he couldn't believe what he had heard. "But Hermione, you know there's loads of work to do, you can't just –" He looked around quickly, then continued in a hushed voice, "we have yet to catch the spy; one of us has to stay at Headquarters to keep a watch on the others, you know I can't do it alone. I thought you'd do the watching – you're really good at it, Hermione – so that Ron and I can go on a few more raids … We got lucky yesterday and if that luck lasts, maybe we'll catch more of them. I've been counting on you … I mean, you've never taken time off work before …"

She had the sudden urge to take out her wand and say _Crucio_. "I know, Harry," she said apologetically. "But I've really got to rest and take some potions – I'm not feeling well at all." She wanted to add, '_because of you'._

Harry finally looked up from his papers and looked at her carefully. Behind his round spectacles, his eyes softened with concern.

"It's true that you don't look good – you're really pale. Is everything all right, Hermione? What did you drink this morning? I know you Conjure your coffee, but there's always a risk … are you sure you didn't leave your cup unattended? You know the Death Eaters can be everywhere, now that they even have a spy here; we've got to be extra careful … there was a bone-breaking hex on my chair this morning …"

Hermione wondered how long it would take Harry to surpass Mad-Eye Moody's paranoia, now that Moody was dead. It wasn't unusual to find their cubicle jinxed in some way upon arriving at work; the Aurors sometimes made traps for each other as a joke of sorts when the stress became too much. Being Voldemort's prime target for over ten years must have started taking its toll on Harry's sanity.

"All right, Hermione. I'll try to explain to Percy, so that the Minister won't be too angry … he's really expecting us to catch the spy in a few days, but I don't care – if you're sick, you can have the day off. Take care of yourself, Hermione, and take an antidote, just in case. I'll see you tomorrow."

"Thanks, Harry."_ It's your fault._

"Go home and relax – not with a book!" Ron added.

Pressing her lips together to stop herself from unleashing a flurry of angry words, she hurried out of Harry's cubicle.

She Disapparated from the Atrium and found it a relief to be home. The house was empty save for the tawny owl perched on the windowsill. She had deliberately left the window open so that it and Crookshanks could go outside whenever they wanted. Crookshanks probably was out hunting as he had been most of the time during the past weeks. She got the suspicion that he stayed outside to avoid Lucius, whom he didn't like any more than other Dark wizards.

She sat in front of her desk, vanishing the coating of dust had accumulated on it. _I don't even have the time to clean these days_, she thought as she formulated a message to Voldemort.

Hermione gave a contemptuous glance to the beetle crawling restlessly in her jar. The leaves probably needed to be changed, but since Skeeter wasn't a normal beetle, she wouldn't die without fresh food, not for a few months at the least. _I'll change them later_, she decided.

She folded the parchment and sealed it, then beckoned to the owl. She patted it on the head as it settled on her desk. It chirruped before taking the envelope in its beak, and she watched it fly away through the open window.

She had wanted to get away from Harry and the other Aurors, but at the same time she longed for someone to talk to, someone who would understand. She needed support, but where could she get it now? Who could possible understand what she was going through?

She wanted to share her distress with someone who knew what it felt like, who had been through this and worse …

The answer came to Hermione after a minute of deliberation. _Number seven Elmsford Road_, she said her destination mentally as she Apparated.

She appeared in front of a familiar door, which was dark with grime. She lifted the heavy metal knocker and swung it down.

Bellatrix opened the door. "Oh," she said instantly as she caught sight of Hermione. "Come in. I'll get you something to drink," she offered, helping her take off her cloak.

Yes, Hermione thought she could definitely drink something strong now, just to forget it all.

"Bellatrix?" she said curiously, "Why are you wearing black?"

She had noticed that Bellatrix only wore black to Death Eater meetings. At other times, her robes alternated between extravagant shades of dark red, violet, brown and purple, colours that complimented her black hair strikingly. Hermione secretly admired the dark woman for choosing the colours of her robes with good taste.

"I am mourning my sister. Not even a month has passed since Cissy died …"

Hermione cursed herself for her tactlessness. It had completely slipped her mind that Bellatrix and Narcissa were sisters. They didn't look alike at all, and to her, they couldn't be in more different categories. One had been a hated enemy who had almost killed her; the other she considered as close a friend as a not quite sane Death Eater could be. But she should have expected that Bellatrix would mourn her sister's death …

"I'm sorry for your loss," she said as sincerely as she could.

Bellatrix laughed sharply, her eyes crinkling. "No you aren't," she said harshly.

Hermione felt her knees tremble. Had Bellatrix guessed that she was the one who had poisoned Narcissa? It wasn't possible … there was no clue that could connect her to the murder. But Lucius had still found out that she had done it …

She squashed her fear of being finding herself at St Mungo's tomorrow morning, tortured into insanity. She had killed _Bellatrix Lestrange's sister_ …

But everyone thought Narcissa had accidentally poisoned herself – that had been the story Lucius had given Draco and the other Death Eaters. No one knew that Hermione had been the one to put the poison into the 'wine'. But Bellatrix had probably guessed that Hermione was Lucius's mistress; perhaps she blamed her anyway … maybe she thought her sister had committed suicide because she had been so devastated to find out that her husband was cheating on her?

She didn't think the sisters had been on good terms, judging by how she had seen them bicker at Christmas, but maybe that was the normal relationship between siblings in a family as Dark as the Blacks. Hermione had been an only child; she couldn't claim she knew much about sister to sister dynamics.

Bellatrix fetched a bottle of Firewhisky, which she placed on the rickety wooden table on the far end of the dusty drawing room. The cobwebs in this house were much more noticeable than those she had seen at 25 Knockturn Alley or even at Grimmauld Place. Somehow, she didn't think the Lestranges minded them enough to remove them.

When Bellatrix conjured a glass and pushed it into her hand, Hermione took it without even looking at it. Her previous experience with Firewhisky wasn't far from her mind, but she did think it would be far too ironic for Bellatrix to avenge her sister by poisoning her in the same way her sister had tried to. Then Bellatrix sat down next to her and took a gulp of the same drink, from the same bottle, and Hermione didn't think she was so devastated by her sister's death that she would poison herself. And the Dark Lord wouldn't approve …

So they sat in the draughty house and drank Firewhisky, chatting about all subjects except those that really mattered.

Hermione was about to take another sip of the Firewhisky, when its colour suddenly reminded her of the Polyjuice potion she had drunk to impersonate Narcissa's potions dealer. She broke out in laughter, harsh laughter so much like Bellatrix's.

Bellatrix seemed very curious about what was the cause of it, and Hermione, between peals of laughter, choked out, "I've got an idea … it's the perfect plan. Harry won't live to see next week!"

This caught the older woman's attention. "Tell me," she urged.

Forcing the gaiety down for the moment, Hermione explained what she had just thought up. Soon, both of them were giggling wickedly.

"To kill Potter and have his blood traitor Auror friend blamed for it … the Dark Lord will be delighted! You're a genius!"

They laughed together loudly, madly, and their dark eyes held identical glints of excitement and hunger for retribution.

Hermione Granger had crossed the final line into Darkness.

"Potter won't live to see next week," agreed Bellatrix.

That became their toast as Hermione poured her friend another glass and refilled her own. They drank together to the downfall of those they hated and the impending triumph of the Dark side.

"D'you know – d'you know how I can reach the Dark Lord to tell him about the plan?" she asked. "An owl won't be fast – and safe – enough, I think."

Bellatrix shook her long hair out of her face regretfully. "Not even I know where the Dark Lord is at this moment. He changes his location very often to keep the Aurors off his tracks, and while an owl bearing a letter addressed with his name can find him, it is he who initiates all other contact with us. You will have to wait for a summons. I may be able to speak to him on your behalf when he summons me next time, maybe even tonight … he can summon only select Death Eaters instead of the entire inner circle," she explained.

"I know," Hermione said without thinking. She had learnt to restrain the urge to flaunt her knowledge most of the time, but the habit had remained with her after she had left school, and sometimes it was too strong to resist, especially after a glass of Firewhiskey.

Bellatrix's dark eyes snapped to her, suddenly narrow with suspicion. "Has he summoned you _alone_?"

Hermione shook her head quickly. "No." She pushed her bushy hair behind her ears. "But I know how it works … the spell, I mean. I'm familiar with the Protean Charm and – and the other enchantments woven into the mark. We worked on Team Information Transmission spells in Auror training … there was this class called Contact and Collaboration; I passed with top marks, and it's useful knowledge, really handy in espionage …"

The older witch didn't inquire further, and Hermione congratulated herself on once again successfully diverting a person's curiosity by overloading them with technical details. She rested her elbows on the table's scratched surface. On the wall above the table, a dusty tapestry depicted the family tree of the 'Most Noble and Ancient House of Lestrange'. For a moment, Hermione's eyes lingered on the double golden thread that linked Antares Lestrange to Altair Malfoy.

They were interrupted by the doorbell ringing. Bellatrix jumped to her feet, pulling out her wand, and approached the door cautiously.

"You're as paranoid as an Auror," remarked Hermione.

"That's what Cissy used to say," Bellatrix replied, "but it's peculiar to hear it from you."

"I'm _supposed_ to be paranoid," she said defensively. "I'm a spy."

Bellatrix peered through the keyhole. "Oh, it's _you_, Rabastan …" The chain on the door clanged and the door slid open with a creak. "Why are you back so soon? I thought I sent you to watch over my nephew …"

The thin, dark-haired Rabastan Lestrange stepped into the entrance hall, not noticing Hermione. Bellatrix locked and jinxed the front door behind him while he hung his travelling cloak in the cupboard.

"Draco thinks my company isn't needed at the manor," he said. "Pansy must be doing a fine job of distracting him."

"Rabastan, the boy just lost his mother and his father's been locked in prison for the second time!" said Bellatrix. "Of course he's lonely at his manor all by himself – with his twit of a wife," she added sarcastically.

"He didn't look very bothered by the news. He's still moping over his mum, but he didn't say a word about his dad. I almost got the impression that he's glad Lucius has been captured. He probably hopes the Dark Lord will give him a chance now that he has control of the family money … it sounded like he blames Lucius for Narcissa's death because, apparently, he wasn't sad enough about it."

"Of course he wasn't," Bellatrix scoffed, glancing shrewdly at Hermione. "It's been ages since he cared about her at all," she said, banging the bottom of her glass against the table.

Rabastan jumped, finally noticing Hermione. He looked like he wanted so say something to her, then shook his head. "You've been drinking again, Bella?" he said with a sudden wariness.

Bellatrix laughed, then grabbed him by the wrist and tugged him over to the remaining chair. "Do sit down with us for a drink, Rabastan. It's a special occasion: we're drinking to our victory."

He sat reluctantly. "What do you mean?"

"Our favourite spy has concocted a plan to finish off Harry Potter," Bellatrix announced gleefully.

"Have you?" he gushed, giving Hermione a long, admiring look. Then he paled slightly. "Aren't you meant to be at work?"

"My colleagues are celebrating their latest victory," she said, and there was a sibilant note in her voice. "I called in sick before I could succumb to the urge to curse them in from of the whole Auror Office. I hope they choke on their Butterbeer."

Rabastan nodded sympathetically and Bellatrix patted her shoulder. "When did you become so vicious?" she asked with a feral smile.

Hermione swallowed a scorching gulp of Firewhisky too quickly. She started coughing; Bellatrix laughed, but Rabastan leaped up to thwack her on the back.

She wiped her eyes and looked at Bellatrix in disbelief. "_You_ are calling me vicious?"

The older witch's smile revealed more teeth.

"Coming from you, that's a compliment, isn't it?" Hermione realised aloud.

"What – what puzzles me," Rabastan spoke up, stammering when the two women turned to look at him, "is why you're so angry over the capture. Don't get me wrong, it's admirable to look out for our fellow Death Eaters … but only two were captured, it wasn't half the inner circle, was it? _We_ are angry because Rodolphus is family. But you – you didn't know either of them well –"

Bellatrix snorted into her glass, but he ignored her. "– and it's not like the Dark Lord …"

"It's not like the Dark Lord will let them stay there for long," finished Hermione.

Rabastan nodded quickly.

"I guess I can understand why you're confused by my reaction, but you shouldn't forget that one of them brought me to the Dark Lord. I feel a lot of gratitude towards him for that."

"I would say it's more than gratitude," chirped Bellatrix. "Much more."

Hermione almost choked on her drink again. She glared at the woman, shooting a meaningful look at Rabastan.

"How did you, er, meet the Dark Lord?" she asked. She had been wondering about this for a long time, and it was the best way she could think to pull the conversation away from the dangerous subject.

The dark woman's eyes lit up as though it was her favourite topic of conversation. It probably was.

"I was sixteen," she started. She took a gulp of Firewhisky, and her eyes almost glowed. "He was invited to a Christmas dinner hosted by my parents. My sisters and I were told to practice our skills as future hostesses. I was at the door and my chore was to take the guests' cloaks." She took another sip. "It was the first time I saw him. He walked through the door and … he looked at me and I just _froze_. I couldn't stop thinking of him all evening …"

Rabastan rolled his eyes, pointing at the glass of alcohol in Bellatrix's hand. But Hermione looked at the dark witch with interest.

"He made a speech about the cause at dinner, and I was utterly charmed. It was as though he was reading my thoughts … I begged him to let me help him in his war before the evening was over." The look in her eyes could only be described as fanatical. "I promised that I would be his most loyal servant … he didn't believe me then … he must have thought me a naïve child. He told me – I remember his words as if it were yesterday – 'I do not admit mere children into the ranks of my followers. But there is a Darkness in you that intrigues me. You were born for the Dark, Bellatrix Black, and I shall teach you the noblest of magical arts.'

"It was the happiest day of my life. He trained me in the most arcane of the Dark Arts during the next year, and I received the Dark Mark on my seventeenth birthday."

"And that's all," Rabastan told Hermione, sniggering.

Bellatrix put down her glass and whirled on him with manic eyes. "You are staring to annoy me, baby Rabastan," she said in a singsong voice, fingering her wand.

He winced. "I'm sorry, Bella," he said quickly.

With a regretful sigh, Bellatrix let go of her wand to take another sip of her drink.

"Do you remember the ball my parents had for my birthday, Rabastan? That's why the Dark Lord was there … you and Rodolphus were there too, though you were quite young …"

"Of course I remember! Rodolphus came home and started about how he was going to join too, and when I asked him why, he was like, '_Well, Bellatrix Black has joined – she's amazing, such an example to us … she's so brave to give her life to the Dark Lord when she's only seventeen …_' He didn't shut up about it for weeks, much like you never shut up about the Dark Lord …"

Bellatrix laughed loudly. "Oh, the Dark Lord …when he looked at me the first time, he awoke something in me." Her heavily hooded eyes were distant. "I felt that I needed to please him … Rabastan is right, I talked about him every day at home and at Hogwarts, and I swore myself to him before the year was over. My parents were delighted … I have tried my hardest to please him since. He considers me his most faithful, his most devoted servant …"

Rabastan made mocking gestures behind her back, mouthing 'obsessed' and 'hero-worship'.

But Hermione took in Bellatrix's flushed face and glowing eyes, and she smiled. "I think I understand …"

"I thought you would," Bellatrix said with a sarcastic quirk of her lips.

Hermione sat straighter, giving Rabastan a quick glance. He was staring vaguely through the window, shifting his empty glass mechanically in his hand. He wasn't listening to them. Reassured, she turned back to Bellatrix and said tersely, "And what's that supposed to mean?"

"At Christmas, Lucius did not leave you behind to fight for your freedom while surrounded by Aurors. He has been my fellow Death Eater since the day I joined, and I assure you that I had never seen him concerned for someone's safety to the extent of Side-Along Apparating them out of danger. He normally trusts us to fight for ourselves, and he seems to think that those who fail to stand their ground are too weak to be proper Death Eaters." She scowled a little, then shrugged. "He wouldn't have made an exception of you without a reason."

"He did have a reason: the Dark Lord would have been especially angry if I had been caught and exposed as a spy," Hermione protested.

"Yes, and the Dark Lord rescued me – only me – from the Ministry of Magic, _in his arms_, because he didn't want to lose his best duellist to Azkaban again." Bellatrix winked. "Then there is the way you look at him," she added, smirking. "It has been quite clear to me that he is your master."

"He's my _what_?"

Bellatrix smiled patronisingly at her. Hermione turned away, crossing her arms over her chest.

Rabastan was watching them with his mouth open, and Hermione saw that his hands were trembling. "The way she looks at who?" he said hoarsely, sounding like he was in pain.

Bellatrix looked at him with undisguised sadism. "Weren't you listening to our conversation, baby Rabastan? No? Why don't you repeat it for him, then, dearest spy?" she nudged her.

Hermione shook her head, avoiding her gaze.

"But we don't want – I'm sure he doesn't want the whole inner circle to know."

"You mean to say he doesn't want us to know how fond he is of a Muggle-born? That's completely understandable," Bellatrix said with a harsh laugh.

Hermione reddened indignantly.

"He mustn't think all of us are as blind as you, Rabastan." The latter made a sound of protest, but Bellatrix ignored him. "He thought my sister wouldn't see it either. But a woman always knows when her husband is being unfaithful to her; I know even if I cannot speak from experience – Rodolphus has never so much as looked at anyone but me. He doesn't dare … he is afraid I'll leave the house to stay permanently with the Dark Lord. I would like to, of course I would, but Master doesn't allow me to – he believes I'll become a liability," she said with frustration.

Rabastan was staring into his glass of Firewhisky, a frown on his face.

"And you, Rabastan? Seen anyone you like lately?" she said with an evil glint in her dark eyes. "Rodolphus and I are waiting for you to provide an heir to the noble name of Lestrange."

Rabastan gave her a dark look, blushing. He left the table in haste, not daring to look at Hermione.

"He has a thing for you," Bellatrix said conspiringly, loudly enough to make sure he would hear. "He must've been _crushed_ to hear that you are already taken."

Hermione was formulating a response when she felt her left forearm burn. Across from her, Bellatrix winced, her face lighting up with excitement at the same time. A few seconds later, an apprehensive-looking Rabastan came crashing back through the door.

No one spoke. The two Death Eaters fetched cloaks and masks from the wardrobe; Hermione concentrated to Conjure hers from the concealed closet in her bedroom. As one they dressed, pressed their palms to their Dark Marks and Disapparated.

They hadn't been summoned to a forest this time, but to the doorstep of a large, decrepit house on a hill. She figured this was the infamous Riddle house Harry had talked about. No one among the Aurors thought Voldemort could still be using it when Dumbledore and so many other people knew about it. That was probably why he was using it … he was hiding in plain sight.

Hermione had fastened her cloak over her Auror robes; it was long enough to hide them completely. She followed the flow of Death Eaters, cloaked and hooded like her, past the doors and through a spacious corridor. This probably wasn't the first time they were summoned here …

Their journey ended in a large, carpeted room lit by candles. The windows were tightly curtained, not letting through even a sliver of daylight. Hermione felt like she was in a church.

Voldemort stood in the shadows near the opposite wall, his back to the unlit fireplace. He wasn't wearing a hood, and his scarlet eyes looked brighter and more bizarre against the chalk-white skin of his face.

Hermione knelt and kissed the hem of his robes like Bellatrix had just done, although she noticed that Bellatrix had lingered in the position far longer than the Death Eater before her.

The circle of Death Eaters was noticeably smaller today. With Lucius absent, Hermione found herself standing next to Bellatrix, with Pettigrew on her other side. The latter, she noticed, was stealing glances at her every couple of seconds.

Voldemort stepped away from the wall. He stopped in the middle of the room, and a perceptible shiver went through the gathered wizards.

"I find myself extremely disappointed, my friends. I have been informed this morning, as have some of you," his eyes flicked to Hermione, "that three of our number have allowed themselves to be captured by Harry Potter's _heroic _squad _for the second time_."

Hermione saw that this was news to some of the Death Eaters who probably weren't receiving the _Daily Prophet_ at home. Their cloaks rustled as they turned to look at her.

She shook her head silently, trying to convey that she hadn't known and hadn't been in Harry's team.

"Today, our circle is incomplete because of the carelessness of some of my servants who, when faced with someone as supposedly _powerful _as Harry Potter, are too overwhelmed with cowardice to duel like proper wizards."

Hermione stared at him. Was he saying that it was Lucius's fault that he had been captured while on a mission? That he had been too _afraid_ of Harry to fight?

"I have commanded twenty of our Dementors to return to Azkaban to keep your captured brethren _company_."

Hermione became extremely still. She felt very cold all of a sudden.

_And I joined this monster?_ she thought.

"Perhaps this will give you an incentive to put more effort into your fights regardless of whom you are facing or how outnumbered you are," he continued, and Hermione could feel the growing agitation of the wizards around her. "I sense from the mind of my spy that the Ministry has been quick to conclude these Dementors have rebelled from my control –"

She jerked her head up sharply. Had he sensed the other thoughts in her mind too?

"– and this will be to my advantage. The Dementors will be doing other errands for me while they remain at Azkaban with the Ministry's _full_ confidence …"

Disbelief overrode Hermione's fear of this monster's wrath. "For how long, my Lord?" she spoke up.

Voldemort turned his merciless gaze upon her. "For as long as it takes for the most idle and useless of my servants to learn the lesson. And this is the last time I warn you not to speak out of turn, _spy_." His voice was like a low, icy blast of wind, like the sound of an approaching Killing Curse.

Hermione quickly looked down, not wanting this heartless creature to see the tears forming in her eyes.

She stood numbly in her place, only a foot away from Bellatrix, and listened while Voldemort went on to question select Death Eaters about their missions, issuing threats to those who had failed or weren't trying hard enough. She stood, wringing her hands anxiously as she waited for her turn. Now was not the time to show her resentment – if she wanted to help Lucius, acting in a way reminiscent of Harry Potter and getting killed wasn't the way to do it.

Voldemort nodded to Bellatrix, and then he stepped in front of Hermione.

"My spy …" The words were a menacing hiss. "I thought I commanded you not to attend meetings during your hours of work? And not to reveal your identity, even to those you kill …"

Hermione gasped behind her mask. It was much more frightening to face Voldemort without Lucius at her side. She tried to draw comfort from the presence of Bellatrix, reminding herself that she wasn't alone: she had a friend next to her. "I took the day off to – to plan Harry Potter's death, my Lord."

She heard startled noises from the Death Eaters, but Voldemort paid no need to her excuse, not even when Bellatrix said bravely, "That's true, Master."

"I also hear that you have been engaging in Muggle torture," he said, a touch of amusement crinkling his inhuman eyes, and she couldn't discern whether he was admonishing or praising her.

Hermione felt her face grow hot under her mask. "You hear right, my Lord."

The other Death Eaters gasped and gaped at her. Voldemort gave her a scrutinising look, then walked further along the circle.

He didn't ask her about her plan for Harry. She was mentally debating whether to speak up anyway when he stepped back and said, "You may leave. Spy, stay behind."

Hermione winced. She understood the importance of hiding her identity, but it felt impersonal and … degrading … to be called 'spy'. It was as though in Voldemort's mind, she was reduced to her function, like she didn't exist as a person beyond her useful role of agent. And she knew it was the truth … to Voldemort, that was all that she was.

"My Lord, I wasn't informed of last night's attack," she said once the last Death Eater had closed the door behind him. "If I had known … I would've told you, I swear I would have! I wouldn't have let it happen –"

"Why weren't you informed?" he cut in, his voice cold as ice.

Hermione stopped talking suddenly. "I don't know, my Lord."

"You are in Harry Potter's confidence. You are at the top of the Auror ranks, yet not only you weren't informed, but you weren't among the Aurors sent on a mission of utmost importance either. Was I lied to about your rank or have you behaved in a manner that has led your colleagues to suspect your allegiance?"

"My Lord, it's nothing like that! Harry Potter and the others, they're working night shifts," she explained. "Harry told me this morning … he had a vision of your plans; he gathered the Aurors who were at the Ministry at the time and went after the Death Eaters who were to attack that family. I didn't know – I'm not at Headquarters at night."

"And why aren't you, if that is when the most important raids take place?"

"Fudge never gave me night duty, my Lord. He … I think he underestimates me, as a Muggle-born, you know, and as a woman … but that's just my guess. I – I don't really know why, my Lord."

"You don't know?" he repeated. "Tell me, Granger, what use do I have for a spy who _knows nothing_?" he roared.

"That's not true," she said, insulted. "I've told you loads of Ministry secrets … we've foiled dozens of raids thanks to the information I provide …"

"As we would have again, it seems, if I am to believe that you would have fought against you _friends_ had you known about last night's attack," he interrupted. "But what if I had commanded you to keep up the image of a loyal little Ministry servant?"

"What – what do you mean?" she whispered.

"What if I had ordered you not to interfere?"

"But my Lord, why would you –?"

"Did I give you permission to question me?" he hissed.

Hermione closed her mouth, flinching.

"Would you have obeyed me?"

"My Lord, I couldn't –"

Voldemort made an angry sound. "You couldn't have?" he said. His voice grew beyond its normally high pitch. "You _couldn't_ have obeyed my orders? Or you _wouldn't_ have?"

She looked down at the floor, hoping he wouldn't sense the thoughts that were swirling furiously in her mind. She tried to sound firm. "I would have done what you said, my Lord."

He saw right through her attempt. "Lies, lies, all lies! I have a spy who tells me naught but lies!"

"Not at all, my Lord," she protested. "I've never given you false information!"

"There are other methods of deception than telling falsehoods, Granger."

Hermione shifted uncomfortably, but looked back into the inscrutable red eyes.

"You are a Mudblood," he said, making her wince, "but you have joined the right side. Do you regret your decision, Granger?"

Hermione rolled her eyes. Did he think she would be stupid enough to tell him if she did? "You know I don't. The Light side is filled with hypocrites … Dumbledore says the Dark wizards are prejudiced against Muggle-borns and half-bloods, but so far, the Dark side has treated me better than the Ministry. It took Fudge three years to start considering me as worth more than half the average Auror. But you and the Death Eaters – you accepted me as soon as you saw that I wasn't your enemy. Lucius, the Lestranges and the rest of your followers treat me like I'm one of them … like I'm as good a witch as they, even though I'm Muggle-born."

"You are good with answers, my spy," Voldemort said, nodding to her. "But if you don't regret it, why do I sense a stench of hate in the air? It is coming from you … your very breath reeks of it." He wrinkled his flat, serpentine nose. "It is directed at Harry Potter … at Dumbledore … at our enemies … and part of it is directed at me. You would turn against me in a second …"

"I wouldn't!"

He laughed coldly. "You would. You may not know it, but if you were faced with a choice, you would turn against me."

She didn't know what came over her, but suddenly she felt like she was a Gryffindor again. She looked straight into the red eyes and spoke before she could stop herself. "Then don't give me a reason to turn against you, my Lord."

Voldemort's lipless mouth spread in a chilling grin. "You almost remind me of my dear Bella … almost. But you _hate_ me … what use do I have for a servant who detests me, withholds information and is loyal to another?"

Strangely, she didn't feel afraid. She felt nothing at all. "It isn't in your interests to kill me, my Lord," she said defiantly. "I'm your highest-ranking spy; you can't win this war without my help … or his. You won't find another Auror willing to work for you, and you won't find another Death Eater who has as much money to finance your campaign."

"A brave one, aren't you? I do value bravery in my servants, unless they use that bravery to thwart me … an action I _know_ you aren't foolish enough to attempt. The reason you joined me may be the reason you now defy me, but you know what happens to those who defy me, _Auror_," he spat, twirling his wand in his skeletal hand.

Hermione's face was wet with perspiration, and her mask stuck uncomfortably to her forehead. "But my Lord, I'm bringing you important information!" she said quickly. "I've found a foolproof way to defeat Harry Potter!"

There was a sudden silence. She continued: "I know the contents of the prophecy …"

"You know the prophecy?" There was a quiet anger in the icy voice. "Why, then, did you not tell me earlier?"

Hermione's hands started shaking. She hadn't thought about this. It hadn't even occurred to her that he would ask … why _hadn't_ she told him before? Because she had still considered Harry a friend? Because she had had enough loyalty left towards him, for saving her life several times, that she hadn't wanted to become the instrument of his destruction?

She couldn't tell the Dark Lord that she had a debt towards Harry Potter. Frantically, she tried to lie. "I didn't know. I overheard Harry telling Ron about it this morning and –"

"Liar," he cut off. "Do not lie to Lord Voldemort, for he always knows."

_Did he know Snape was a spy for decades? _she thought.

"You have known for years, Granger. Isn't it the duty of a spy to share her knowledge to the detriment of the enemy? Or is it that you do not consider Harry Potter an enemy?" His eyes gleamed like rubies in the dim light, angry and hateful. "_Why didn't you inform me that you possessed the knowledge I have sought since the day that wretched boy reflected my Killing Curse back at me?_"

"Because … because … I was Harry's friend … I wasn't ready to single-handedly cause his death …" Even as she said it, she knew he wouldn't understand – Voldemort had never had a friend in his life. Her mind was working at top speed, thinking up excuses while she spoke. She hoped she could get away with nothing worse than the Cruciatus Curse … "I couldn't bring myself to do it. I joined you just months ago; I still wasn't sure, back then, that I would be accepted on this side, and I figured there was no great hurry … I thought a few weeks wouldn't make much difference. I was still new here, my Lord, please, you must understand that I couldn't –"

Voldemort's eyes narrowed even further. His slit-shaped pupils had widened until they drowned out the red iris almost completely, reminding her of a furious Crookshanks. "But now you can," he stated in an icy hiss. "Now you have no more qualms about betraying your _friend_ …"

Hatred flared in Hermione. "I want him dead. Kill him, my Lord, please! He deserves death! In fact, he deserves – he deserves worse than death."

"There is nothing worse than death," Voldemort said sharply.

Hermione looked at him, but her objection did not reach her tongue. "Then kill him," she said strongly.

Voldemort's eyes narrowed. This woman's zeal almost matched Bella's … only her loyalty did not lie with him. His hatred towards his slippery servant redoubled. How dare Lucius win this one's loyalty when he, Lord Voldemort, could not …

She could become a nuisance … but she was far too useful to him, entangled as she was in Lucius's web of deception. As long as her chosen master remained under his command, so would she … she had become a priceless asset to his cause. He wouldn't have gained so much ground over the Ministry and Dumbledore recently had it not been for the information she provided. She was ensuring the Dark side's victory!

When he would no longer need her, he would kill her with the other untrustworthy ones, her _master_ being the first of them, but for the moment, he was going to pretend that he tolerated this situation. "Go on then, Granger … prove that you weren't lying about your knowledge of the prophecy as well."

Hermione stared at a broken mirror on the opposite wall as she recited the words. "_…the Dark Lord will mark him as his equal, but he will have power the Dark Lord knows not –_"

"What power can he have that I know not?" he interrupted.

"Harry said Dumbledore thinks it's the power of his heart," she said hesitantly, then sighed. This was useless. Voldemort didn't understand the concept of love. Poor Bellatrix … did she know that her master was incapable of it?

She tried to explain in a way that he could understand, because if her explanation made him feel confused, he would get angry and she would pay the price. "From what I understand, it has to do with his mother and the protection her sacrifice created, my Lord. It's why Dumbledore made him stay with his mother's relatives … Dumbledore thinks the protection is in Lily Potter's blood."

Voldemort threw back his head and laughed. "Then it is of no importance, as the same blood – and the same protection – flows in my veins. Dumbledore is a fool."

"He may be, my Lord, but he is a dangerous fool," Hermione said wisely.

"A true Auror, aren't you? One can never be too cautious …" He flexed his ghostly hands. "The rest of the prophecy, Granger."

He was looking at her with undivided attention, and she felt flattered that her knowledge was so important to him. "_And either must die at the hand of the other for neither can live while the other survives_," she finished.

"That is all?" Voldemort sounded delighted. "That's of no consequence. I always knew all I had to do was to kill that boy …"

"But that's not as easy as it sounds, is it? You've tried several times," she said, adding hurriedly, "Today, when I was talking to Bellatrix, I got an idea that'll make sure you're successful this time. Please, just hear me out, my Lord." She looked desperately at him. "I've found a way – you won't even have to duel with him, and you'll be able to avoid triggering the link between your wands that makes it impossible for you two to exchange spells."

"And how do you propose to accomplish this, Granger?"

"If you follow my plan, he won't even try to fight back."

Voldemort's eyes narrowed.

"He won't fight if he doesn't know it's you. If he thinks you're someone he trusts …"

"_How_?" he said impatiently.

Hermione smiled. "Polyjuice potion," she said simply. "You can use Polyjuice to take the form of another Auror … the person Harry trusts above all others … his closest friend, Ron Weasley. We'll make sure the real Ron is incapacitated and remains that way until it's done, my Lord, and I'll lead you into the Auror Headquarters. You can kill Harry in front of all the people there. I bet everyone will be so shocked that you'll be able to walk out of there without anyone trying to stop you, if you're quick, or you can prepare a Portkey.

"This way, you'll be getting rid of two enemies in the same move," she enthused, feeling quite proud that she had come up with this. "Harry will be dead and they'll send Ron to Azkaban when he shows up, probably without a trial since everyone's going to claim they saw him do it. They have been looking for a spy for a while, and they'll all conclude it was Ron. It'll get them off my track."

Voldemort didn't praise her or show any sign that he was impressed, but Hermione knew he was when he said, "I expect you to have a strand of Ron Weasley's hair in your possession when I summon you tomorrow evening. But if your plan fails, you will pay the price. Now leave!"

She was a foot away from the door when he spoke up behind her.

"A warning, Granger …"

She froze on her way to the door, glancing up at him with wary eyes.

"You have sworn eternal loyalty to me; it would be wise for you to remember this. I understand that you have acquired a tendency to act without my approval … but keep in mind that if your identity is revealed in one of your foolish attempts to break down the protections on the Azkaban fortress, I will not help _you_ escape prison."

She sucked in a shallow breath through her mouth, and he smiled at the scent of fear that permeated the air.

"Get out of my sight, Granger, or you might not be lucky enough to escape it with a mere taste of the Cruciatus."

She was out of the door as quickly as her feet could carry her.

Hermione couldn't believe it. Voldemort really thought she was stupid …

He had been there, in the back of Professor Quirrell's head, when she had told the teachers that she had confronted the troll thinking she could subdue it on her own. But he must have known that she had been lying to keep Harry and Ron out of trouble; they had, after all, just saved her life. And she should have grown out of such reckless overconfidence if she had ever had it or she wouldn't have survived her first year as an Auror.

_Even at twelve, I wasn't stupid enough to attempt something that I knew to be impossible_, she thought indignantly as she stalked through the corridors in the direction that she remembered led to the front door. But, Merlin, Voldemort could be so scary … how could Lucius deal with him time and again without flinching?

She saw that most of the Death Eaters had already Disapparated. Some had lingered to talk in hushed voices in the corridor, sharing their fears of being captured, she was sure. She was walking quickly past them when someone grabbed the edge of her cloak.

She stopped and turned around. To her disgust, the short wizard who was holding her cloak was Peter Pettigrew, who had removed his hood.

"Hermione, I'm amazed to see you here … you were always such a sweet and clever girl at school … but you're even cleverer than I thought! And I have thought about you so much … I couldn't dream that we would be on the same side!"

She yanked her cloak out of his hand, reminded of the day she had done the same in the Shrieking Shack. Her disgust towards this traitor hadn't waned since her third year at Hogwarts. If she had had friends who actually cared about her, she wouldn't have betrayed them out of cowardice. "If you ever try to touch me again – and that includes touching my cloak – I'll get Bellatrix to sort you out."

Pettigrew recoiled, his watery eyes filling with anguish. "But I've liked you for so long … I love you, Hermione! That day Goyle's son tried to hit you on the Hogwarts Express, I bit him with my rat teeth to save you! I bet he still has the scar … serves him right. I watched you as a rat at the Weasleys' house … I often crawled under your bed to watch you sleep. Your cat noticed and tried to eat me …"

Hermione tried not to pull out her wand and hex the horrible man. "I'm sorry, Pettigrew, but it's your problem that you obsess over what you can't have."

"C – can't have? But you're – you're not with anyone, are you?"

"Yes I am," she said, hoping this would get him to leave her alone.

He reared back as though she had struck him. "You are? But – but I thought …"

"You thought what?" she said in a steely voice.

Pettigrew looked like Crookshanks had got his tongue. "I – I – who?" he managed, rumpling his colourless hair with a shaking hand.

"Lord Malfoy."

Pettigrew's rat-like face twisted with a mix of resentment and fear. She wondered whether it was at the name itself or because she had used _that_ title.

Then his small eyes lit up. "But Malfoy is in prison now," he said, his voice becoming squeakier with excitement. Hermione wanted to punch him. "That means you're available! You must be so lonely …"

He flung himself to his knees and crawled towards her, wiping the dust off the floor behind him with his black robes. He stretched out his hands imploringly towards her. One of them looked like it was in a silver glove; it gleamed like metal.

Hermione shuddered in revulsion. Maybe it was just her imagination, but she thought she felt the mark on her right arm prickle warningly. She took a step back.

"I'm not _available_, Pettigrew," she said, offended at being talked about like an object or a prostitute. "I'm faithful to the men I allow to touch me," she said fiercely. "And even if I wasn't, I definitely wouldn't go to _you_. So you'd better stay away from me, you pathetic _rat_."

She pulled her cloak primly around her and Disapparated, leaving Pettigrew snivelling on the floor.

That night, Hermione tossed and turned on her bed, but sleep did not come to her. She felt weak and shivery, and so tired that she couldn't muster the will to get up and fetch the Sleeping Draught that she kept in her bathroom cabinet for the rare nights when she had insomnia. For an Auror, it was imperative to get a decent rest at night in order to have an alert mind and quick reactions in battle. Anything else could be fatal in a duel. But Hermione hadn't had a decent night's sleep in weeks …

The nights she had spent Muggle-hunting with Lucius, having only a few hours left to catch up on sleep before leaving for work, were beginning to take their toll on her. It wasn't even as if she enjoyed these Muggle-baiting games …

The night of the Christmas ball, she had been drunk enough to get a glimpse of torture from Bellatrix's point of view, but in a normal state of mind, she found little excitement in making people scream and 'punishing' them – as Lucius described it – for having been born without magic. She went on these adventures into the Muggle world only to be with him. He didn't admit it, but she knew that he craved the attention; he needed someone to keep him company all the time.

She liked watching him. It was awe-inspiring to see him use the Dark Arts; she could almost feel the power swirling in a cocoon of malevolent energy around him whenever he cast the _Avada Kedavra_. She found it scary and exhilarating at the same time. The expression in his eyes, when he would glance over at her and ask whether she found this as delightful as he did, always sent a shiver through her.

And there was no saying no to him, was there? She went along with it because if it was and had always been his hobby, she accepted it just as she accepted his violent temper and his allegiance to the Death Eaters. It was what he was; what could she do about it? He had changed her, but she had no illusion that she could ever change him.

Afterwards, she would lie in his arms and feel safe, sure that she was doing the right thing.

But there was another reason why she always tried to be there when he carried out raids against Muggles or enemy wizards. She knew that he was a powerful wizard, but she couldn't stop worrying that he would be hurt or caught by the Ministry. When he let her accompany him, she could protect him and help him fight if they were tracked down by the Aurors.

And look what had happened when she wasn't there … Bellatrix's husband and Nott hadn't been of much help, contrarily to what Lucius had told her to assuage her worries, if between the three of them, they had still managed to get caught by three Aurors. Well, Lestrange had spent too much time with the Dementors to be able to magically stand his ground against wizards of average power – Bellatrix must have been an exception, because even after her time in Azkaban, she was still a very powerful witch.

Lucius must have been distracted when Harry had attacked him; that was what she had gathered from Zacharias Smith's gloating account of his Impediment Charm. Hermione's throat felt tight and her eyes burned as she imagined the scene.

Something was bubbling in her throat and she did not know whether it was a sob or a scream of rage choking her.

This time, there was no one to comfort her. Lucius wasn't here to make her forget, to play with her body until she couldn't think coherently. Now she was alone with her doubts and insecurities.

The bed shifted as Crookshanks jumped onto it. He curled up against her leg and watched her with glowing, uncomprehending eyes.

"Have you finally forgiven me for using Dark magic, Crookshanks?"

The cat muzzled her leg and started purring in a vain attempt to comfort her.

"Thanks, Crookshanks, for being one of my few remaining friends. But you can't help me … no one can. No one but one person, and he's the one who needs help this time."

No, a cat could never comfort her … not like he did. And she lay there, remembering every time he had Apparated into this room, disregarding the rule of basic etiquette that advised against Apparating directly into someone's house. Oh, what wicked things he would whisper in her ear … she felt silly for breaking down like this, but she had never wished so desperately that he would come and distract her with his commanding arrogance.

This time, no one would hold her and tell her that she had done well.

She cried into her pillow until it was soaked. Then she turned it over and cried again until she had no tears left. Sometime during the night she succumbed to sleep, and she dreamed that she was in a dark place, surrounded by hooded creatures that moved past her in a black blur, leaving a trail of cold in their wake. It seemed to her that she had forgotten everything except the worst moments of her past. She was sure that she would always feel like this, that there was no hope, nothing to live for …

She woke with a gasp, her hand clenched around her right forearm, her nightdress soaked with cold sweat.

"Harry, I hope that after Voldemort kills you, you will suffer in hell for the rest of eternity!" Hermione screamed, her eyelashes sticky with tears.

She wanted to go to Voldemort, to ask that he hurry, to demand that he do something about this. But she had understood by now that he was the kind of person who would not only ignore an appeal for mercy on principle, but was likely to do the opposite just to demonstrate that he had the power.

She wouldn't be able to help Lucius if she was dead.

She relaxed her death grip on her right arm. She ran her finger over the mark, then raised her arm and brought it to her mouth, touching her lips reverently to the spot where she knew the mark was without being able to see it in the dark.

Then she got up, and shaking, hurried to change out of the sticky, cold cloth that clung to her back. She froze at the sensation of silk under her fingers, and she realised that the garment she had blindly pulled from the drawer was the nightdress that had been Lucius's first present to her. Shaking her head, she put it back into the drawer and pulled out a set of robes.

Hermione was about to reach for her cloak when her sleepy, anguished mind remembered that visitors weren't allowed at Azkaban, not family and not even regular Aurors. Only the Head Auror had that privilege … but she was probably next in line for the position, since Fudge had trusted her to help Harry catch the spy, and after Voldemort killed Harry …

She would have to wait until then. The good news was that it would only be a few days. Nevertheless, it might be a good idea to curry favour with Fudge, to make sure his prejudices against Muggle-borns wouldn't make a comeback when it would be time to appoint her to the job. She had to make sure he didn't give it instead to that pure-blooded sycophant, Zacharias Smith. He had part of the credit for the capture of two high-ranking Death Eaters, together with Harry and Ron; Fudge might get it in his head to reward him for that.

Hermione was sure even Fudge would realise what a disaster it would be to make the other latest hero, Ron, Head Auror. Fudge hadn't trusted Ron with the _hunt for the spy_ either, not even when Harry had vouched for him, as Percy had told her. But he had made Percy a head of department, even if the department in question thought him too young and untrained for the position, so she couldn't be sure he wouldn't consider promoting his brother too … luckily, her plan would make sure Fudge wouldn't even consider Ron. But Smith was be a real possibility, and she had to make sure he wasn't selected instead of her.

She lay back down and drew the blanket up over herself. Tomorrow, she would try to get a meeting with Fudge, with Harry's help if she had to. And maybe she would have to keep up the image of a successful Auror again, whatever Voldemort thought about it. Voldemort didn't care about what happened to her, and he would be very angry, but she had no choice. Nothing would elevate her as much in Fudge's eyes as if she single-handedly captured some prominent Death Eater. Perhaps she would have to use her position against the Dark Order for once. They would never expect it, since she was on their side, so she had a chance of catching them off guard.

Bellatrix came to mind, but she dismissed the idea; she saw too much of herself in that woman to betray her like that. She would think about choosing a target later. For now, one thing was certain: Harry wouldn't remain Head Auror for long.

Tomorrow, she would find an excuse go to The Burrow and steal Ron's hair comb, which she hoped he didn't clean too often …

Crookshanks walked towards her, sniffed at her neck, then curled up on her pillow, his warm, soft fur brushing against her cheek.

She found that the creature's purring calmed her slightly, and it slowly lulled her back to sleep. She succumbed to the heaviness that washed over her body, wishing that she would never wake up, or … was it too much to hope that she would awaken in Lucius's arms and find that it had been just a long, horrible nightmare, one he would chase away with his lips?

She threw an arm around Crookshanks's furry back. Holding the purring cat to her chest, Hermione slept.


End file.
